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INBOX II

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[The first thing that happens, the very first thing, is that his tail starts wagging. From the moment those tiny claws land atop him he's already wagging, slow to start but building with intensity each moment that passes— until by the time Astarion rests on that rock, his whole back half is shaking with effort, his excitement such that he has to tap from one paw to the other in momentary displacement. Oh, it's you, his heart sings, and he does not know why he's so overjoyed, save that this puppish body has instincts of its own. It's you, it's you, I missed you so, his green eyes bright and eager as he stares at his fussy mate.

The second thing that happens— and that lends credence to the theory that there is, in fact, a set of bodily instincts he cannot ignore— is that Leto feels that dampness settling in his fur. Wet dog indeed, and there's only one thing to do when you're wet, his instincts tell him—

So the second thing Leto does is give himself one brisk shake, ocean droplets spraying everywhere as he grumbles in satisfaction. Then he looks back at his mate, panting gently as he views him.]

Yes, it's me.

[And isn't he pleased with himself? With an audible grin Leto trots forward, absolutely unashamed about how he snuffles and noses at his mate— hello, hello, memorizing his scent and relishing the feel of familiar chilled fluff against his snout, hello you, hello, equal parts adoring and mercilessly teasing.]

[He's a precious thing. All teeth and a lolling tongue, wriggling hindquarters leading the charge after forepaws plod eagerly back and forth— alertness bathed in recognition like a banner, unmistakable at its height— and it only grows once close. Snuffling and snorting and happy, hot puffs of breath filling the whole of Astarion's vision.

His damp, fussy, squinted vision. Assailed by a snout the size of his head, hissing on matching reflex— albeit just the mouthy, affectionate protests all pack creatures have, regardless of species: a cub will squall at its mother, a kitten will wail, bats—
Well, bats have their own way.]

Yes yes hello— that's— [With slight effort, his wing-claws push up against the wet tip of leto's nose, signaling that his transformed mate's had enough of a smell. Honestly he'd normally be shrieking by now if either of the pups were the ones butting eagerly into his space, but as things are, he's tugging and reaching with his little talons trying to get a better look at him with half-blind vision.

His book still laid out flat on the nearby rocky shelf he'd been using as a perch beforehand, though it needn't have been so fastidiously obscured: there's no one else beneath the temple anyway. Only the lapping of the risen tide and whatever noises they both make.]

Selûne's tits, it truly is you, isn't it? What an adorable thing you are— the spitting image of your id.

....And the twins'.

[Oh, those precious little chirps. Those protesting little squeaks, not wholly new but all the more endearing with a new set of ears. Leto settles back on his hindquarters, his tail still wagging furiously and excitement thrumming through restrained muscles. Look at how good he's being. Look at how smart he is. Isn't he such a good boy? Such a good boy, if anyone wants to notice and/or comment on it.

Though some of that excitement dissipates as Astarion speaks; with a little bark of laughter Leto submits himself to that fussy attention.]

There is an unfortunate coloring resemblance, I will admit. And you are one to talk about adorable, squeaking as you are. You smell even better to this nose, do you know that? You smell good ordinarily, [he adds swiftly, just to cut off any protesting squawks.] But you're particularly distinct in this form.

[Drawing back a little further, he tips his head back, showing off the scarf clumsily (but securely) tied around his neck.]

Do you approve of your accommodations? I will admit, it was no easy task to tie this with a third hand, never mind check to ensure it was thick enough that no sunlight could penetrate.

Edited 2024-09-27 18:54 (UTC)

[Down here, no light can penetrate. What the temple doesn't cover, every rocky, cliffside formation— convex and concave alike— lies far, far below the past-noon sun's sprawling reach. And without its threatening glare in present play, it's easy for him to waddle up along his perch to get a better look at offered transport, craning his neck from left to right. Swiveling again (to check the thickness for himself) and again (to gauge its security. The thoroughness of it all.

It's a snort that says he's satisfied. A flick of his ears forwards, and then:]

I do wonder if anything doesn't smell good to that newfound nose you've plucked up from the Weave. Oh but my my my, what a grand conveyance— I expected no less of you.

[And yet his beady eyes sink lower, marking the sight of trembling haunches. Muscles vibrating with energy underneath layers of fur and skin.

Ah.

An addendum:]

Good boy.

[The noise he makes to that praise— and it is unintentional, a noise that bursts out of him immediately without a moment of hesitation or thought— is not, hm, something he's proud of. It's excited and overwhelmed and muscle-meltingly thrilled; it's not unlike the noise he makes when Astarion plays with his ears just so, threading the needle between tapering pressure and caressing touch.

It might be written out as hrhggggh.

And then it's out there and there's absolutely no taking it back. And of course dogs can't get embarrassed, not really, but still: there's a little bit of the look Fortunato gets when she knows she's done something she oughtn't beneath the bed. One paw pushes fitfully over his snout, his tail still whapping fiercely against the sand despite himself.

(He is a good boy).]

You're welcome.

[Let's just all move on from that, shall we? And just so they can hurry things along . . . one ghostly hand suddenly materializes, hovering helpfully near Astarion.]

Show me this treasure, that I might drape it around you so we can go.

[Instinct rules them both right now. His fur puffs up sharp around his ears when that hand materializes, flensing and flexing his teeth beneath a curled-back snout before— oh. Oh no, it's fine. Just Leto's summoned cohort for their own benefit. That, he can live with, he asserts, licking the tip of his nose as he smooths down in trusting comfort, shrugging off his own example of unexpected synapse.]

Around me? Oh no no no darling, [Comes as a coy little chirrup of amusement akin to a battish chuckle, taking flight to drift alongside hand and pup alike towards the rear of the cavernous space, where Umberlee's follower's keep their bedrolls. Waxen stalactites and stalagmites giving way to what looks like daylight at first: dangerous cast searing as they come around the bend— little sunspots scattered here and there across the floor.

Little drops of gold.

Literal gold. Coins the size of Astarion's chiropteric head beside heaps and heaps of jewelry, silk, fur and incense. Crowns that smell of saltwater and precious metals and freshwater pearl. A sprawling, unmapped hoard that Astarion alights to, folding his wings quite proudly where he lands. A little maned dictator atop his find.] Around us both.

[There is so much of it after all, that even were they to saddle bat and hound and hand with as much as they could bodily carry, none would be the wiser.]

I wouldn't risk another curse for nothing, you know.

[If he could whistle in awe, he would.

He's seen his fair share of loot before, gold heaped in little piles or jewels carefully laid out on pillows, but nothing like this. Nothing so vast, so utterly in excess that it would be impossible to begin to calculate its worth. So much so that it's a wonder to Leto's mind that no one has made off with any of it before— but perhaps no one is foolish enough to risk Umberlee's wrath.

Or perhaps they have, and it hasn't made much of a difference at all.

Astarion's right. There's no way they're leaving with anything less than what they can bodily carry, for this will set them up for . . . oh, gods, who even knows? At least a year or two, but likely so much further. They could get a better apartment, start to splurge on things— gods, Astarion can get the shopping trip in the Upper City he's always wanted. Leto can picture it now: his mate preening as he spends an obscene amount of gold on tailored silks and fine dyed linens for no other reason than he can . . . and you know, it's that thought above all that motivates him. Leto's eyes flick up, lingering fondly on the little dictator himself, his fur smoothed down and his ruby eyes gleaming in the dark.

He deserves this. And so long as they have no plans to travel by sea anytime soon, it's well worth the risk.]

You certainly didn't . . . gods, Astarion, this is incredible.

[There's such awe in his voice as, eyes wide and nose raised high, he snuffles his way in deeper. For a time there's nothing but the sharp iron scent of metal overloading his system, but soon he learns to distinguish between gold and silver, incense and fabric and jewels. The hand drifts behind him, slow and dutiful— though it does take a moment to playfully tweak one of those battish ears.

Adorable.

Then it's off to begin its duty: gently lifting a delicate silver bracelet inlaid with sapphires and drifting over to Astarion.]

I will not argue over carrying my fair share, not when it comes to this. But if Baldur's Mouth runs a story soon on a naked warrior dressed in naught but gold necklaces and a single bat suddenly appearing midway through the city, you are taking the blame.

Hold still, now— hold still, this is not easy—

[It's like trying to work while staring in a mirror, and do all that to a bat besides. He wants to try and drape it around his head like a miniature necklace, but whether or not he can get it past his ears is, hm, debatable, and not helped by the jerky motions of the hand.]

[He's not heard that tone on Fenris'— on Leto's lips in so long (long enough to have been Fenris at the time, awash in another life in Thedas, when it was gleeful exuberance— not just awe— that struck him), even if it's his canine muzzle that's parted in a grin and his tail still—

Aw. Still thumping. Gods that's cute.

So if his own facade breaks a little in favor of softening like palmed butter, well, fucking sue him for it he's having a moment here. A small one. Small and crammed into his stature alongside him, chittering a few more notes of pleasure without realizing it; the pressure of that warmth has nowhere else to go.

Interrupted when he bites those tweaking fingers— how dare you— and accepts his fair share of their score with scolded grace thereafter: going straight once told to hold still so that silver might slip about his pointed ears and drop down into a regal hang.]

Oh nonsense, kadan.

They'll— well they'll run the story, of course, but they'll think you an eccentric wizard or somesuch. Just one more magus amongst scores that imbibed too much of his own experimental brew, unexpectedly teleported into the middle of the city, and somehow managed to turn all his linen robes to strung-up pearls and diamonds. [There's a distinctive flop as one long ear gives way to yet another bracelet, springing straight once over.] Penned akin to a quirky, giggleworthy footnote. Probably censor your erm....jewels with a little hand drawn picture of a very cute bat.

Hm.

[Thoughtful. With the batty version of a smile.]

I'd save that paper clipping.

For a time, anyway, up until I found it and burned it.

[A cheerful retort, for none of the thrill has faded just yet. Already his mind is buzzing, leaping ahead to indulgences and responsibilities both (will they actually have enough to open a vault in the Counting House? There's all sorts of tricky things the rich do to make their money grow, Leto remembers from Danarius— and he's certain Astarion knows a few things too, legal magistrate that he once was. It's not that they'll be so rich they'll never have to work again, but at the same time—

Maker, has he ever had this amount of money? Have either of them? The more he thinks on it, the giddier he becomes, thoughts of spoiling his vampiric mate and indulging in his own desires twisting round in his mind.]

Though I might be persuaded to spare it for the particularly cute bat alone . . .

[And there's an odd little moment where, midway through draping another set of bracelets over Astarion's head, the hand hesitates, stilling with a lurch as Leto's form shivers. It's a restrained motion, an impulse jerking that's there and gone; in the next moment the hand resumes its task, and Leto laps at his own nose, trying to ignore that.

(A mystery, though one that's swiftly solved if Astarion has ever watched Fortunato struggling to restrain herself: it's hard not to want to barrel over and nuzzle at his mate whenever he feels a surge of adoration, nipping and licking and snuggling in the fiercest surge of love, but he knows better than that).]

Ask me, though, if what I mind most is being caught naked or being identified as a wizard, and I still will not have an answer for you.

[Another bracelet, and another, and another— they're up to about ten now, slender things that they are, when Leto adds:]

Astarion . . .

[A pause as he gathers his thoughts, and then:]

When all this is done, and we have resold all the treasure and put the money in our account, kadan . . . I want to take you out. To indulge, and shop, and let you try on whatever you desire— and then attend a party in the Upper City and dance with you until they shoo us home.

You have spent months keeping us safe and treating me as a consort, indulged and spoiled in whatever I asked for, and I will not deny I have enjoyed it. But now I want to do the same for you. I can plan it, if you wish to be surprised. Or I can defer to your judgement, as you know this city so much better than I. But let me indulge you the way you deserve.

[It's a bloody good thing that he's a scarf-forged transport waiting for him; the bracelets are thin and light (and glittering when they shine around the borders of his vision, casting everything in paler hues), and yet his tiny shoulders sag under the weight of his regality: a tired little ruler all too ready for his journey home, slinking lower in the crawl down towards the base of a nearby chest so that he can begin prying up necklaces and chokers strung together from pearl, ruby, sapphire and opal— and holding them out with miniscule claws to begin Leto's coronation.

Come here, sweet catulus. Come get your share while he's nearing the end of what his bedecked form can carry.

And a little, swiftly applied headbutt to the bridge of that snout. A lick to seal it once he's close. He might be overwhelmed. Might be deeply overwhelmed, as it so happens, for he can't seem to stop squeaking now— almost inhaling between animistic syllables.]

You— [His nose is wriggling. Crinkling. Scrunching hard. Energy so dreadfully kinetic and inspired that it's hard to know if he intends to fawn forever or bite down on canine skin, his little jerks and pulls suggesting both.

A pup, too, in his own way.] —tease.

[Apparently is what he settles on without control over the end result, still gripping pearl between his talons.]

You thoroughly despise each and every one of those things you've listed— [He's touched. He's touched and he believes in Leto's promise, and therefore all the more can't stop careening in his search for something less beautiful as an excuse. Something less blinding. More equalizing. More— ]

Are you ill? Did one of the pups eat my expensive blouses? Did Ataashi?

Did you?

[Oh, oh, those little squeaks. That overexcited, overeager wriggling and writhing and squeaking that can't stop, won't stop, that Leto never, ever wants to stop— they're precious. So sweet and earnest and excitable, and his tail wags all the faster in response, his puppish heart thundering giddily as he endures every bite and lick that his overstimulated darling needs to offer.]

Shh, shh— all your things are as you left them, and I am not ill. Nothing is wrong.

[There's an irrepressible grin woven into his voice, his rough tongue darting out to steal a quick, fond little lick.]

I despise all of those things, it's true. Just as you despise dive bars and fighting rings and pups that drool all over you in their sleep and refuse to share me when they've a mind to snuggle. And yet you give me those things anyway . . . it is far past time I indulged you in the same manner.

Besides, [he adds, lowering his head just far enough that Astarion might drape those pearls over his head whenever he sees fit, emerald eyes still locked on his chirping mate,] it makes me happy to make you happy. Not just in a day-to-day sense, but giving you the things you desire. Watching your face light up or listening to you chirp in your excitement— it is a gift unto itself to watch you melt. Darling thing, you are not the only one who likes making your mate happy.

You deserve this. My only mistake was not proposing this months ago.

It wasn't a mistake.

[Correction quicker than a flood when it wells up. When it stays.]

None of this was.

[Touched, and he's bristling again, pushing necklaces over Leto's listless ears and climbing up his snout to manage. Restlessness becoming his, but it's warm beneath the surface, fussing closer to the chest than anything outwardly arranged.

Someone's toddering old nan with fur.]

Hold still. You're shaking far too much and I don't intend to watch you choke yourself just because you've gotten all wound up. Stay seated. [This isn't your world, is what his mind is thinking truly in those margins. Accommodations made for an elf who can't go home solely because he followed a sinner into the dark— intrusively swearing that's the story of his life since Cazador: drawing brightness out an open tavern door until it's lost to kin and kith forever— put away, because at least now he's years enough removed from that old life to see it clearly: like the promises they'd made in the bustling heart of Evereska, they look after one another.

Calling it balanced might not be fair, but it is equal.

Astarion reminds himself each day that he can live with that. Each night even moreso.]

And— [He wraps his little wings around the corner of a crown on his next trip back, fighting to tug it loose from piled coin with next to no success, cutting short whatever his intended reply might've been. Replacing it with a chorus of snarls and grunts, and the endless jingling of bracelets.]

[He goes still, or at least as still as he can manage beyond the endless thump-thump of his tail. He bows his head and flattens his ears as best he can, patient to the last— for the mood Astarion is in, he needs room to fuss. To bristle. To squeak (adorably) and flap and huff and worry over Leto, so overwhelmed that he has to let it out somehow. Leto knows. He's seen it before, and now, after years together, he knows just how to smoothly counterbalance it.

But Astarion gets stuck on the next trip, and there's a difference between being calm and being passive. Leto pads over carefully, catching the crown between his teeth and tugging as gently as he can. It comes loose with a pretty jingle, coins cascading everywhere as a triumphant rumble sounds in the base of his throat.]

And what?

[Soft, as he sets the crown down. Let Astarion drape it over his head, for he's gone back to sitting still. His head cocks, his eyes locked on that small, fluffy shape, trying to read a body he's unfamiliar with. The mood is familiar, yes, but this particular version of it . . . perhaps it's still too much, even now. Perhaps he ought to have tempered it, softened it, made it more palatable— and yet even as he thinks it, Leto disagrees.

Better to suffer the preliminary sting of hot water before getting the reward of sinking into a hot bath than to endure a tepid one. Perhaps this is overwhelming, but what he promises is nothing less than Astarion deserves, and Leto aims to give it to him.]

Take a moment. We are in no rush . . . and I sprung this on you.

I would know what you're thinking.

Mmph. We will be if the priestesses return to find us helping ourselves. [Sees the crown fastened in place around Leto's now inordinately regal throat. Necklaces and chokers glittering beneath it in wild absurdity for contrast, compared to the ocean-slicked pup they lovingly adorn.] Existence as a dog and bat won't save us— I don't know if you're familiar with the Bitch Queen's devotees, but they'll off even their own kin for stepping out of line.

Hells, they celebrate just drowning— not even for a purpose, just the whole debacle itself like it's their mad-as-a-mepmhit's-tit of a goddess calling them home.

[He tucks rings around his ankles like anklets, and adds a few bangles onto Leto's own furry heels whilst muttering something along the lines of 'if anything severs in unpredictable transformation on our way home, we'll just pick up whatever pops off on our way to the nearest healer. Nothing to worry about.'

Before he's fighting to clamber into that cloth kerchief. wriggling and squirming to get in, and once unseen, answers:]

—and....I....was going to say I'd like it. To be a part of it, that is.

Your offer.

Seeing the places in this city that i can't remember, and can't scarcely forget in my own dreams.

[To see if I'm right.]

[Astarion's such a comforting weight nestled against his chest, Leto thinks as he begins the (jingling) trek up the coastal path. He sways gently with every step, bouncing so rhythmically that it's not unlike a heartbeat, and that's comforting right now. He cannot take Astarion into his arms as he wants to, nuzzling against his throat and soothing him with slow touches, but until he can, this is a decent substitute.]

Then we will plan it together. Start and finish wherever you please, for however long you please.

[His voice is low and warm. And though there's a hint of distraction woven within (how to get them home when he has minimal navigational prowess in this winding city), there's nothing more important right now than this conversation.]

We can even start now, if you wish.

[A little leap and his paws hit sun-warmed cobblestones, the scents and sounds of a city neatly drowning out their murmured conversation.]

Where would you like to go?

[He has a spot in mind, but he will not suggest it unless Astarion does. There's a headstone. A grave, and he has not forgotten in all the weeks since they spoke of it last, but it isn't his place to bring it up. This is meant to be a day to spoil Astarion, and while the gravesite is important, Leto will not judge him for not wanting to include that during a night on the town.]

[Though every step jostles and jingles, there's something to be said for snugness: every word huffed out in transit rumbles through him, and what confidence doesn't calm, the beat beat beat of Leto's hounding heart manages with little effort.

It's dark, and soft, and warm, and those three facets fit together spell out safe when all is said and done. Act as a steady balm for a shiftless, otherwise brittle soul.]

There are rumblings of an exclusive dining club in Manorborn, open to only the creme de la creme of this city's most notable patrons. A cabaret run by devilkin, a drinking club for those with magic in their veins— shopping near high hall and taking in the views of the city on high long before dawn steals its glittering splendor....

[Oh, he could go on for hours, he realizes; a catalog of long-held snippets of soirees and sorties amongst the higher echelons— no longer wholly out of reach.]

[He rumbles contentedly low in his throat, a sound meant to soothe the little bat nestled so close as much as it is encourage him. I like this, that's what that sound means. I like hearing this, tell me more, I want to make you happy . . . he does not know if it helps. Perhaps it doesn't. But Astarion is still so new in some ways to being indulged like this, and if he can encourage it in any way, he will.

Besides: he cannot deny those things sound intriguing. They aren't to his taste, no, and he wouldn't want to attend an endless circuit of them, but he cannot deny that there's something thrilling about being admitted to somewhere so exclusive. To indulge in the hedonism of the Upper City, watching a cabaret or drinking fine wine with Astarion at his side, thrilling in every second . . . yes, he can understand the appeal quite well.

This will be fun, he thinks to himself.]

We will have to stretch it out over the coming weeks, then. I would not mind trying more than one of those.

[And even if he did, he'd do it anyway.]

But the cabaret sounds intriguing— I have never seen one, not beyond the bawdy "plays" the Blooming Rose put on at times. As does the drinking club— though a room full of nothing but drunk mages sounds like a recipe for disaster.

[Another little leap as he reaches the streets proper, and then Leto hesitates. Pauses for just a moment in uncertainty— and then pads forward into the sunlight proper, his muscles tensed and ready to dash away the moment he hears a protesting cry.

But there's nothing. No smell of burning flesh, no agonized shriek— and so he continues forward, some part of him still ready to run if need be.]

Tell me of your shopping plans. I remember Rialto fondly for a thousand reasons, but you dressing us both is one of them. I will submit to whatever you feel is appropriate, so long as you thrill in it.

[And then, because he can't resist:]

Are you all right?

[Just making sure, as he darts from shadow to shadow as swiftly as he can.]

—you went to those plays too?

Tch— now I'm bitterly jealous we never went together. It'd have made A Midwinter Night's Cream moderately bearable. [Is a radiant chitter readily inclined to mimic the waves they soon leave behind, tucked between oppressive layers of cloth that blot the worst of the sun's glare (and yet, much like the carriage ride from Evereska, it's the heat that draws in tenderly against fur and skin alike; pressed in from the other side, if he closes he eyes, he might just manage to pretend— )]

Hm?

[All right?

—oh.

Oh.

Gods above, he'd been so preoccupied with the bulk of their plans and the mollifying inpress of Leto's presence (houndishness detracting nothing) that he'd completely forgotten the risk in play: his rampant paranoia laid low without a whimper.]

Yes.

Yes— of course. [Flustered. Or stumbling. Or elated. Or distracted. Or— ] Aside from the whole being-shaken-about-like-a-rodent-in-a-trap, it's practically sybaritic down here.

[Good. He has suspected as much, but the confirmation allows something in him to exhale. He's better than he was, but there is ever a part of Leto still grimacing at himself, remembering how foolish he has been with his lover's limitations before. Nothing has happened, nothing has ever happened, but still: Leto would never forgive himself if his own idiocy led to Astarion getting hurt.

But all is as it should be, and Leto's steps are a little lighter as he bounds his way down streets and alleys. Most don't notice him, or if they do, it's just long enough to earn a bewildered remark (is that a bloody dog?). It will take quite a while to make it halfway across the city, but he's making good time.]

You enjoy the shaking.

[It's a retort with no meaning, offered up as they head forward. He's moving as fast as he can, but there's few things that attract more attention than the gleam of gold— and though no one has made a move just yet, Leto can hear the murmurs of surprise and interest around him. Better, he thinks, to avoid detection by wandering deeper into the hidden alleys and half-forgotten byways of the city, trotting past derelict slums and bars that take the phrase hole-in-the-wall quite literally.

It works right up until it doesn't: when he finds himself frustratingly boxed into place by a petty squabble just up the street. Two drunken idiots are fighting over something with two members of the Flaming Fist trying to separate them— but one of them conjured a few devilkin, and now it's an all-out fight. And while Leto could risk sneaking past them, he doubts he wouldn't be spotted (or worse, singed).

So he hides them both behind a stack of boxes and heaves a doggish sigh, impatient as he settles in.]

[And out of one of those dingy bars, a voice floats out. Unknown to Leto, and thus utterly unremarkable at first— but his ears prick and swivel rapidly as he hears a familiar name.]

Where do you think Astarion went?

['Does it matter?' another voice answers sharply. It's a woman's voice, and it softens as she continues: 'I don't know. Somewhere far, if he had any sense. But Master would have heard if corpses started going missing in Waterdeep or Candlekeep . . . I don't know. More than likely he's dead somewhere.']

Master doesn't think so. He still refuses to believe it, and he would know . . . he must have some indication of how many of his spawn are still alive.

['Maybe. But—' Another sharp exhale, and the woman continues: 'As I said: it doesn't matter. And this is depressing me, Dalyria. Go check and see if the sun has gone down yet.'

Footsteps as a slim figure rises and sticks her head out of the shadowy doorway, only to scowl at the fight breaking out down the street, and all the gleaming daylight illuminating it.]

It hasn't, but there's a fight. Come see.

[Two sets of footsteps now, and neither tiefling nor drow (for that is what they are, no matter that they smell strangely familiar to his houndish nose) seems to notice Leto behind all those boxes.]

Edited 2024-10-10 00:48 (UTC)

[It takes no time at all for Astarion to go still as death itself; he doesn't need to hear his own name when the voice that utters it registers as quickly to long ears as if only yesterday he'd last heard it calling— three full years vanishing in a blink. A breath. For in that moment when he shrinks inside his cocooned safehaven, he feels himself again, not as he's become, but as he was: one lowly spawn cowering in gutterways, counting out precious minutes until dawn, and praying to the gods themselves he'd found a worthy mark by then— panicking already for the hour somewhere against the white-blank canvas of his mind.

Worse, those words that follow: he still refuses to believe it. And hells, of course Cazador does. Of course it'd never be so easy, never mind that it's been a handful of years where the whole of Toril was wiped clean of Astarion's existence, never mind his tracking efforts must've failed to that end for so long that it made the Szarr estate's once famed persistence sloppy, never mind that any other vampire could simply make another spawn, no— never mind all that, because it's clear now the devil had been right. Fenris had been right. And here they are perched close enough to smell, saved only by transfiguration and a knotted bit of cloth.

He feels sick.

Feels the compulsion— stupid as it is— to claw his way free from smothering oppression and bolt away to anywhere else. Fuck, it doesn't matter where, just not here. Not here. Not here. Insistence hammering like the heart he lacks, yet panic holds him deaf and blind and dumb, but still. Completely, breathlessly still, not even daring just to blink, save shivering beneath the thinnest measure of risen fur.

Apparently the stricken, screaming urge to flee combined with the desperate desire to remain unseen alchemically translates to rigor mortis.

Someone smarter might make sense of that.]

[How many times has he felt Astarion go rigid in his arms?

His body shaking for how stiff he's gone as they huddle beneath the sheets and he grips Leto's hand like a lifeline, white-knuckled and desperate, his voice haunted as he recounts tortures the likes of which Leto can scarcely imagine. His skin soaked in sweat as he wakes up screaming from a nightmare that he refuses to recount; his muscles coiled tight with terror and paranoia even as Leto works to soothe him, settle him, fingers in his hair and a strong arm wrapped around his frame, it's all right, he isn't here, I have you, I have you, it's all right (and the mantra is so important, even though it never once works). Late-night confessions whispered between kisses or idle facts offered up with seeming glibness, but always, always, there is that stiffness.

Leto feels it now.

The cold little form nestled against his chest becomes a dead weight, so silent and still that even Leto's enhanced hearing can't discern him. It's only the most minute of shivers that let him know that his mate is still with him, and even then, they're all but imperceptible. Astarion is terrified— and it does not take a genius to understand why.

So these are his siblings.

Master, Master, and Leto forgets all he's ever known about Cazador's indomitable power. Every time that title slips past their lips is another damning mark against them, deference both a pathetic show of loyalty and a blazing warning sign: they will not hesitate to turn him in. Cazador hunts his mate still, and it's nothing they didn't know, but it's so different to think it in the abstract and to have dizzying confirmation. They will take him, and it's a shrill warning, a piercing shriek as his heart thunders, they will steal him away, they will hurt him, they will torture him—

And then rising out of the abyss, a voice made of steel hisses: they will not touch him.

It isn't a declaration of intent but fact: he will not let it happen. He will not let anything come close to touching Astarion.

He's shifted without realizing it: his stance now alert and low, his ears pinned back against his skull and his teeth bared in silent, seething snarl. He knows better than to growl— to snarl— to bark and bite and tear, ripping into soft flesh and ravaging this threat until it's no more, scaring it off or killing it with one powerful bite— he knows better, he knows better—

But it's so hard to fight instinct.

For a long, sickly moment Leto teeters between his rational mind and his animalistic one, staring up at the two figures before him. But attacking won't help— and so though his every instinct screams to leap forward, Leto jerks one paw back, then another. And another, his movements jerky, his eyes locked on those figures. He's silent as the grave as he retreats, stepping so carefully to avoid jewelry clinking, and it's not that he makes a sound. It's not that he is trying to be seen. There's nothing that gives him away, nothing that should alert either of those figures—

But at the last possible second, the drow turns her head, her blazing eyes coolly intelligent as she stares at him. And though she does not make a sound to alert her companion, she sees him, he has no doubt. A beast that doesn't belong adorned in jewelry and with a heavy parcel slung around his neck, but there's nothing that might give Astarion away. There's nothing.

And just as her mouth opens (to say what? but what could she possibly say; doctor dalyria doesn't believe in such fanciful notions as like calling to like, and yet—) Leto turns tail and runs.

Dashing down alleyways and darting beneath passing carts, uncaring for being seen, uncaring for his own comfort or safety, running til his paws ache and his barrel chest heaves for air— for the more distance between them, the better.]

Edited 2024-10-11 03:26 (UTC)

[It's not enough. No. No, it'll never be enough. They could run across the whole of Faerûn and it wouldn't make a difference in the slightest. Tear open a portal from blood and bone and scrying glass down, down, down into the Hells— and it wouldn't damned well matter in the end: because it's real, now. And it'll never stop. Never end. Never let him be.

The moment his once-sibling's voice uttered his name not five full strides' distance from them, that hateful needle shifted irreversibly, he's sure of it. Feels it large and looming overhead like the sword of Damacles, twisting as if dragged into unnatural position by cold, forceful hands; unwilling and unable to return to the weightlessness present not half an hour before — blithely draped in pearled hope, decadent confidence— folly, in other words. Shaded hideous as a lover plucked from a dim tavern only to see hack-carved features exposed in brighter lights.

We'll dine and dance till morning. We'll mingle with the haunts of High Hall and watch the bawdiest of plays— no, we won't.

No we fucking won't.

Another vampire will get there first. (Correction: is there first.) Waiting like a spider in its web the way he's always been. Always done. Always wanted. Striking the second that they're spotted, greedy fangs plunged deep down to the bone. Astarion can see it clearly; masked against the backlit glow of leaded glass, there is no calculable limit to the black-eyed measure of his quickened hunger— the resentment— oh, it's been longer than a week. Much, much longer than a week. He's touched another. Sworn his heart to them. Bedded them. Bled them. Tsk tsk, Astarion.

He can't hear a thing over Cazador's imagined purr.

Long after Leto' stopped and brought them home, possibly kicking or nosing the door shut, he doesn't realize it. Stays put, curled up tighter than a locket in that kerchief, ready to bite down on anything that dares to agitate his sanctum.]

Edited 2024-10-12 19:34 (UTC)

[Their home is quiet, for whatever that's worth. The twins, pups once more, have fallen asleep snuggled up together, exhausted after their bewildering day. Ataashi lounges on the bed, her blazing eyes locked on Leto as he enters the room but otherwise motionless. Clever darling that she is, she can always sense when something is wrong. There's no desperate leaps for attention or panting exuberance; she watches silently as Leto transforms back, her posture attentive but not overwhelming.

Gingerly he lifts the small bundle from around his neck and places it on the bed. There's not a stir, not a sigh, but that doesn't surprise Leto. He makes short work of ridding himself of their treasure, fumbling only slightly in his haste, and slings on a pair of trousers. The entire process takes less than two minutes, and yet not once does he remove his gaze from that little bundle.

He climbs into bed. Scoops up the still, silent form of his lover and rests him against his bare chest, nestling him close to his beating heart. One hand lays gently but firmly atop the bundle, fingers close without becoming confining.

And Leto waits. Perhaps not forever, no, but he will wait a long time for Astarion to emerge. He has a book on hand, and there is nothing more important to him than his mate. There's a part of him that longs to tug him free, unwrapping that cloth and whispering assurances, but . . . no, it will not help to be forcibly torn from his shelter, Leto suspects. Better to let him come out in his own time, and they will take it from there.

Until then: it's quiet. The room fills with familiar noises: Ataashi's steady, slow breathing nearby (her eyes half-closed, her body pressed up against Leto's own), and in the distance, the twins snoring and snuffling in their sleep. The steady turn of a page here or there, and at a great distance, the sound of workers below lazily cleaning as they wait for the evening to come. And always, always, there is Leto's heartbeat: steady and sure, calm and unflagging no matter how long it takes.]

[He's waiting for the end.

Whether or not he believes it's truly coming hardly makes a difference when certainty's still breathing down his neck, choking out the inside of his den with its pervasive exhalations. And beyond the bubble that it forms— nothing.

Nothing.

Through branchwork, balled-up limbs and a buried snout, he's moved, but there's no sound. No real sensation, either, compared to the huff puff flow of paranoia. Gravity. Wet and dark and deep, with no end to sprawling bounds, that nothingness that reeks of iron rust. Evokes the memory of spent spittle burning in his throat— as close to true sensation as it gets when he's been shut in and forgotten. Albeit for what, he can't recall (but it's not unusual, is it?) he'd been dreaming. Is dreaming, perhaps. Like the snap of misaligned gears, his burned out brain keeps thinking with all the grace of a drowning figure: ugly reflex, quick in action yet sluggish in regards to reason, oscillating wildly in the hopes that something might connect. For Astarion, that's logic. He's curled up in the kennels, he thinks; he's dizzy and confused from steep starvation; it's then— it's now—

It's the crisp sound of a page turning, smearing against its kin before it pops like a stiffened joint, and settles.

The softer shoreline hiss of blood running in channels underneath him, and the bassy pulse that throttles it onwards, slowly shaking Astarion where he rests in ways that stone floors never would.

Well— not unless Cazador's constructed some sort of new and ultimately unseemly horror when it comes to architecture, but— no. No, that's not a possibility, not even for him. And for all his time spent underground, it'd been cold, and stiff, and lifeless, not at all like this.

One tufted ear drives its way out from darker cloth, flicking upright first, and then another. A wriggling muzzle with a wet, snuffling nose— and then two albinic ruby eyes, squinting sharply to adjust whilst they take in their surroundings. The slow start to a careful crawl down to Leto's chest, then up towards his chin. A place to shelter under that's familiar in its rediscovery— safe and steady and warm, and comfortably scented— little wings folding across the front of a tattoed throat.]

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looking back on all my anemia caused typos and errors while screaming

i noticed NOTHING

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