Tʜᴇ Pᴀʟᴇ Eʟғ | Asᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ Aɴᴄᴜɴíɴ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
INBOX II
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no subject
Think of the girl, not the woman. Think of a small voice, high-pitched and sweet, not the low tenor of a voice aching in agony. Think of hot days and chilly nights, and a hand that so often found its way into his, sticky and sweaty and safe.]
She was a bossy thing, and our mother inclined to grant her wishes when she could. Most often that meant accompanying her into Minrathous, for she was fascinated by the marketplace. [Leto— and it really was Leto back then, skinny and dark-haired— had far different interests.] But having a guardian annoyed her as we grew older.
She ran from me once, annoyed at my rules, and I spent the day hunting for her. I searched endlessly, growing more desperate by the hour, until at last I had no choice but to head home— only to find her there, and our mother furious. I do not recall what lie Varania had told her— only that it was something that made it seem as though I abandoned her in favor of seeing the fighters in the pits.
That lingers. As does the pain from the thrashing she gave me.
[A small pause, and then:]
But I recall, too, her apology. She cried at me, and sooner or later I forgave her. She was still small, and easier to pity. Seven, perhaps, or eight, and I a boy of thirteen.
The only other incidents I remember are smaller, and not against me. Her tears when she scraped her knee or dropped the ragged piece of fabric she called a doll into the mud; both times expecting me to fix it. The knee was easier than the mud. Picking fights with the other children and then running behind me when they attempted to retaliate— and how happily I would take the chance to wrestle and fight with them.
Not unlike your sister, I suspect she sought power to survive. And when we were young, that was me.
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But he wants more than just to know that it happened.
(It sounds better than the piss poor facsimile Cazador foisted on them. A touch closer to Vincent, only in reverse.)]
It sounds like it was always you.
At least from where I'm standing.
[Has Astarion said too much for a conversation borne of puppy dog ears and a precious wagging tail? Perhaps— but he can't look away and pretend he doesn't see those small reaching fingers as his own so very long ago. Can't ask to know Varania as she was and then buck the response for how utterly mortal that it proves.
Like a wound that won't stop bleeding, it's the tenderness that outstrips the pain.]
As for Dal, I can't say the same about myself.
I was the runt of the litter, after all. The problem child. The troublemaker who wouldn't stop dragging them all down.
There was more power in rejection than there was in mercy offered up my way.
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[It was always him. From the moment she was born to the moment they last met . . . even within her betrayal, it was always him. For a moment he lets that linger in silence, surprised to feel some part of his heart ache. It isn't that he misses her, exactly, but . . . perhaps he misses what she used to be. What she could have been, if Tevinter had not torn them both to pieces.]
Was there ever mercy?
[There must have been. Those healing sessions aside, oh, there must have been. Seven spawn trapped together in an endless cycle of torment and pain, and it wouldn't hurt half so much if there weren't little moments of joy. Varania's betrayal wouldn't have cut him to the core if there hadn't been so many months of letters filled with tentative connections and deepening affection.]
You asked me what the worst Varania ever did to me was. What was the best, when it came to you and Dal?
Or any of your siblings.
[Leon, Petras, Violet, Aurelia . . . or maybe it extended outside of that. Were there moments with the other slaves? He knows only the broad strokes of the dynamics within Cazador's palace, but so little of the day to day.]
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Turn them on each other, and they'll never find the legs to challenge you.]
I don't know.
[The answer to more than one of those questions.]
I can remember-
[That r draws out long and tapers off abruptly; he'd been thinking of how good it felt on those nights when Cazador set them loose to hunt within the city, never completely beyond his gaze, but far enough that they could— sometimes— laugh and share a drink or two. He'd been thinking of the start of nights like those, rare as they had been (for it wasn't long until the 'best' hunter amongst the spawn— not Astarion— would be rewarded with fine quarters and soft silk), when pretending to be close to his false kin seemed real for fleeting minutes, and he might've tricked himself alongside their mark into believing.
But in remembering those streets in cold night air, someone else came to mind.]
My eldest brother.
[Is all he manages. Holding lifeless breath within cold lungs.]
Vincent.
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Tell me of him.
[For it does not take a tactician to understand what might have happened to him. The details barely matter; the fate of any spawn who isn't around anymore is easy to guess. And yet Vincent must have been someone particularly special for Astarion to remember him two hundred years later.]
He was there when you were turned . . .?
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[The first titleholder. His only recollected elder brother. Leto no doubt figured out that truth by now, but it doesn't hurt to confirm it.]
He was a very clever thing, knew what to say and when to say it, more confident than any fledgling spawn— each and every one of us— for what felt like ages stacked on ages to this day. Handsome, too. [As if anyone's surprised considering professions.] Long, midnight hair. Draped in fine, almost overwhelmingly symmetrical features. He wore them well, unlike Cazador's diversity picks.
And had a penchant for pretty little pet names like darling or sweetheart, albeit only if he liked you.
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You modeled yourself after him.
[And doesn't he know full well how that feels . . .]
Did he teach you how to survive during those first years?
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[Did you teach her how to survive, is the question that he almost asks— almost, insofar as he doesn't do more than idly push his quill against thick parchment, carving out a dull little pointless swoop.]
That meant those trips when Cazador sent us out the door to roam in service of his dinner, Vincent taught me the most important expertise he had to offer as if we'd known each other from the start.
We had a good ten years or so, give or take.
[Such a drop in the bucket.]
For whose sake was it that you endured the worst of countless bruises for—
Your mother, or Varania?
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No, more than that. Who took him under his wing when he had no real reason to do so, save to find another hand reaching out in the bleakest darkness.
You were bright. And wondrous. And unsurpassed to this day, even as I know you better. He has not forgotten the visage of himself in Astarion's memories: a warrior with blade drawn and stance ready, blazing bright with lyrium as he stood in front of Astarion's sprawled form. A savior, a hero, bright and bold, ready to defend him from the world and all its horrors. And now Leto wonders distantly if he wasn't the first to strike such a figure— if, in fact, he was the second. If Astarion had not dared to look at anyone that way after the death of Vincent . . .
Maybe. Maybe not.]
Varania. Always, Varania.
[He thinks it a genuine question at first, so distracted is he. Only afterwards does he read into the jagged scrawl and realize that Astarion might be picking a fight— but that's all right. Maker knows he's endured so many of Leto's snarling moods over the past year.]
Tell me how he taught you. Or why you ask such a question— unless it was him who endured for your sake.
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Not because Leto's mother was inferior in any way— he'd never gotten the sense of that if he's entirely honest. More that there was always a lingering sense of something like responsibility that loitered in the way Leto spoke about the competition he willingly (and yet unwittingly— so achingly similar to a pact made long ago) took part in under Danarius' watchful gaze, and whilst his mother was no doubt a concern, he didn't raise her. Didn't watch her take her first few fumbling steps, clinging tightly to his hand.
Astarion was picking a fight.
Even when he'd puncture his own heart for his amatus, he is a bitter thing by nature; prone to stricken little aches for all the things he cannot have— might never have— whatever reason there might be, whatever responsibility he bears in it, doesn't matter in the long run. He died an adolescent thing. Maybe he's fated always to be one.
That's why it was a gentler thing. Not as barbed as the snarls he'd spat out at the others when he wanted to be left alone— but a snappish sign of milder discomfort.
Of bruising.]
Because he left.
[No, there never was another shining hero at the dawn of his unlife like Fenris. There was no first-admired savior. No balm stood at his side ready to face the nightmare arm-in-arm. It was Cazador that Astarion knew first in his most fledgling days, and it was Cazador he was left to after the brother that he'd loved had left.
That's why he didn't think of him. Hadn't thought of him in years. Erased the memory of it all— hid it even from himself, buried down so deeply that it only came in as a flickering epiphany.]
Fled one night with a promise he'd 'be back soon, darling,' and like the stupid thing I was back then I thought he'd meant it. Just one more hunt like any other— why wouldn't he return for me? What reason had I to doubt him, when all we had was one another?
[The markings bleed a little under pressure; ink lines shallow as they well.]
That was why I asked.
You were a better brother than he was. Your answer proves it.
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[Something hard drops in the pit of Leto's stomach, nauseating him as he stares down at the words. He left, two words that might come across as cold and stoic if you couldn't hear pain woven within every word. A hurt so potent that it closes Leto's throat and blurs his vision for a few seconds, no matter that the scar is two centuries old.
And what does he say to that? I'm sorry is meaningless, though he is. You deserved so much better is far more true, but Astarion knows that already. I love you, I wish I had been there, I will never do that to you, I will never leave you, my heart hurts for you, and all of those are true, but it isn't what he wants to say.]
Fuck him.
[It’s vulgar as he so rarely is, spat out and snarled. He can hear his heart thundering in his ears, a rapidfire rhythm that’s growing louder by the second.]
If he was fool enough to leave you behind, he isn’t worth recalling.
[That isn’t true, but he’s furious.]
You were a far better sibling than Varania ever was. A far better companion than anyone I have ever met in my life. He was a fool to leave you behind— and the fact you are here, now, with allies at your side and a knife in your hand ready to slaughter your master, only proves it.
And where is he now?
I will give him credit for teaching you if it helped you survive— but I will never forgive him for that.
Fuck him.
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But it doesn't need to.
What he has now is the penned-out-permanence of a heart that walked through the Crossroads themselves to find him, returned not only once, but twice. What he has now was bought upon the stepping stones of the sihlouette that disappeared two centuries ago, and this time it doesn't leave, and it doesn't abate, and it does more even in the darkest nights than scant lessons or soft-spoken pet names ever could.
Not just the better brother, the better man.
(Perhaps someday the others in the Elfsong bunks might tell him of his brother. Perhaps sometime soon the matter of a ring, and old confessions, and a pitiful goodbye had in Athkatla might come up in fireside discussions of adventures he's forgotten that they've shared. Perhaps, but perhaps is later's gambit.)]
Slim competition, if we're discussing the matter of being backstabbing siblings [A single pattering drop of wetness blurs the ink it spills across— apparently, even penned, his teasing levity betrays him. And at least between the two of them, Astarion admits as much.]
Thank you.
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—how in the Realms did we get here??
[On this subject, he means, laughing weakly to himself.]
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A moment later there's footsteps darting swiftly up the stairs two at a time. A door opens, and like clockwork, a familiar chorus of delighted barks and eager whines arise around the coffin. Three bodies barrel across the room, leaping around Leto in a bid for attention that's equal parts overjoyed and greedily eager for his focus— but oh, all three girls are destined to be disappointed, for his pace slows just long enough to give each of them a swift scrub behind the ears as he murmurs his greeting. A few voices call out from beyond the partition, and those are offered a rumbling greeting tossed carelessly over his shoulder: yes, hello, so blatantly uninterested that it borders on rudeness— but who cares, for there the coffin is, and then—
There Leto is, emerald eyes serious beneath the low-hanging hood of his cloak.
There's nothing else so important as this, he thinks as he climbs into the coffin and closes the lid behind him. Nowhere else he needs to be that matters as much as being home, curled up and holding his mate as the last of those emotions shudders through him. He won't say anything, for there's no use in reopening an already raw wound. But he saw the way ink had smeared; he sees the redness in his mate's eyes, and he will not leave him alone to weather this storm.]
Come here.
[He wraps his arms around his mate, gathering him up without prompting. Come here, my love, his palms warm and firm as they sweep over his back. Gently he presses a kiss to his forehead, the tip of his nose, and then finally to the corner of his mouth. Come here and be with me.
A moment, and he wrinkles his nose in wry amusement.]
And do your best not to shriek your delight.
[If distraction comes at his own expense, all the better. Leto untangles one hand only to sweep the hood back away from his face. Two puppish ears pop out, one and then the other sticking straight up: their fur the same shade as his hair, their appearance tall and pointed.]
The tail is tucked down my pants . . .
[It's a miracle it isn't wagging, but chalk that up to his concern for Astarion.]
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It is so hard to sneak up on a vampire, after all.
And this is the cutest thing he's ever seen.]
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(Funny, he thinks a moment later. Funny how things change, for it wasn't two years ago that he would have been repulsed beyond belief by this transformation. Horrified and all but ready to take a blade to the damned things if it would fix it, and now . . . now, he knows better. Perhaps he will never adore magic. Certainly he never will in Thedas, but things are different here, and at least it no longer terrifies him the way it once did).
And oh: he loves this, he does, but ow.]
Wait, wait— Astarion—
[Laughingly said, but he does his damned best to free at least one hand so he can reach behind him. It's the work of a moment to shimmy his pants down low on his hips, just far enough that the other addition his backlashing magic gave him can finally spring free. It is, mercifully, proportionate enough that it doesn't take up much room in the coffin— but there's no mistaking the rapidfire thump-thump-thump that beats against the side.]
Er— it's uncomfortable to have it constrained.
[So. Yes, and he clears his throat, something a little less than embarrassment crossing his expression. It's no worse than the ears, but still. It's an odd thing to have a tail. Odder still to be unable to control how it wags— nor, indeed, how much faster it goes each time Astarion lavishes another bit of affection upon him.]
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He takes hold of it before he knows it— no, one hand still atop an ear, pinching it, but the other— ]
Oh.
My.
GODS—
[There's no avoiding it anymore, his keening will alert the Elfsong at this rate.
Now all of China knows you are a dog.Something to deal with later.]
Fenris— [Ah, no that hasn't been his name for a long time, not even in front of all the others, now.] Leto— I can't— lookatyou— [Those two sentiments aren't connected, as is evidenced by the overbright coddling and cooing louder than a flock of doves along the tail end: look at you is repeated again and again and again, scrubbing with both hands— forgetting how to blink. Forgetting that he should, and that this is in fact something that all mortals ought to do.] Look how adorable you are!! Why haven't you done this sooner?! It's so unbearably fetching— pun unintended but OH. MY. STARS, LITTLE PUP. You truly are my catulus now, aren't you? Aren't you?
[He's cradling that face in all its splendor, crowing like he's speaking to Ataashi at her best. Hello. Hello hello hello oh who's a darling little boy ♡♡♡]
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Especially when there's a part of him that's trying not to bark in overstimulated, giddying excitement. His tail is wagging up a storm, his cheeks flushed happily as he squirms within his husband's hold, every doggish instinct within him sitting up and panting in open response: it's him it's him, he's his catulus, oh he is he is, he's such a good boy good boy good boy, nonsensical and overstimulated in the sweetest of ways.
(Outside the coffin, there's one very petulant, very confused whine. Why, Ataashi wonders, are those wonderful sounds happening when they aren't directed at her? It can't be at the brats; they're still both visibly baffled as they snuffle the spot where their father had been a few minutes ago, trying to determine what makes his scent so strange right now. Which is good, for she'd riot if it was directed towards them— but if not them, and not her, then why is it happening? And yet there's no answer, no matter how loudly she whines— and so after a few minutes, she teleports her way beneath Shadowheart's bed, ignoring the cleric's startled squawking in favor of bedding down for a good sulk).]
Hush— hush—
[He's still grinning as he says it, unwilling to fully put a stopper in his amatus' excitement. But when mere words don't prove enough, Leto darts in to press their lips together in a forceful kiss. Settle in, the emphasis coming from how he surges forward and urges Astarion to lay flat against the bottom of the coffin.]
You are a menace. Does this really thrill you so much?
[Of course it does. It thrills them both, for Leto's tail (now perched in the air) is still wagging furiously.]
It was an accident, not deliberate— and if you do not settle down, the others will come disturb us, and that will be the end of your fun. You—
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[Astarion's hands are still wandering over him: one at his ears, the other at his tail, claws combing through soft fur with indiscriminate adoration. The latter wraps around the base of his tail, tugging faintly, and Leto—
—moans.
The noise mercifully quiet enough to be unheard, but unmistakable in what it is, for his expression has gone vulgarly slack. For a moment he stares at nothing, cheeks flushing dark as a toe-curling wave of absolute pleasure unlike any he's felt before ripples through him. Oh, oh, and that felt—
Maker. The kind of pleasure akin to when Astarion sprawls him out on the bed and angles his prick just right before pistoning into him; it ripples up his spine and goes straight to his cock, so uniquely good that for a long few seconds he does nothing but stare blankly into space. Fuck. Oh, fuck, and he's so close to begging Astarion to do that again, but— he swallows thickly— not right now. Not when everyone is awake.]
I think, ah, I think it may be sensitive.
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After a beat, yes. After a long moment where the world itself feels far too lush with freshly-risen luridity for his own senses to truck with. Loud and shamelessly delighted— which is, to be clear, the apparent theme of the hour given said catalyst that started his braying.
Yet luckily for them both, unlike the noise that just left poor Leto's throat, Astarion cackling is no uncommon affair.]
Yes, my darling, I think you might be onto something with that hypothesis.
[The wicked gleam in blood red eyes; the sharpness of an already fanged smile; this is danger known by any given name, and it closes in along the curve of Leto's cheek with such a lightless hum that it coils over itself like the very inverse of sound: not something listened to, but something felt— his thumb and forefinger encircling that down-soft tail, stroking weightless circles in thick fur.]
Shall I test it whilst it's here....?
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[He breathes out the curse as his eyes flutter closed, something hot and heavy dropping like a stone into the pit of his belly. Fuck. Fuck, even that— even the slow, teasing glide of clawed fingertips through fur— is enough to make him shudder, little pinpricks of pleasure rippling down his spring. His hips glide and rock against Astarion's thigh, knowing that he's stoking the fire and not caring.
Because he knows that seductive tone, the one that always leaves him practically salivating from desire alone. He knows that wicked look in Astarion's eye and just what it means for the future: promising him the filthiest sort of vulgarity if only he'll beg sweetly for it . . . gods, it's not a question of if so much as when. And, perhaps, what Leto intends to do with these precious last moments before they lose themselves in one another.
Again, something instinctive in him whines. His back arches, his hips grinding forward more shamelessly: again, again, and it's only with an iron will that he manages to shove the desire to the side.]
Yes. But wait—
[As quick as when he's scolding the pups, the tone short and sharp. Not unhappy, not at all, but he knows his husband well enough to know that the moment Astarion hears yes, all the gloves are off. One hand stretches out and glows faintly; there's a buzzing noise, the taste of turmeric thick in the air, before the idle noises of outside fade.
There. That's better, and he cocks his head as he faces Astarion again.]
Can you manage it all in a coffin? Or shall we find somewhere else to explore?
[He is not above renting a room for six hours. Then, wryly (baitingly:]
Could you even manage to wait long enough to get to the brothel?
[And this time, Astarion will be able to actually feel the way his tail wags in playful invitation.]
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The latter roils in him like a shiver.
Pushes his nose into the underside of Leto's jaw. Hard.]
The question is, my little pup— would you be able to endure the thought of having your leg hoisted barely a block away from brothel doors in some dark, scarecely shuttered alleyway, or perhaps endure the most loving sex of your life on top of a rented downy mattress one floor down knowing full well that someone [his money's on Mizora] is going to inevitably try to find out why we didn't tussle here.
[If they rented rooms each time they wanted to travel low between one another's thighs, they'd be more than copperless— they'd be idolized in debter's gaol.]
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Nn, Astarion . . .
[For a long moment Leto wavers, torn between the impulse to tease and the molten temptation of simply sinking into this here and now. His eyes flutter closed, his lips parting as he arches his back in blatant invitation, his tail lifting just a little higher . . .
But it's so much more fun to play.
His eyes gleam eagerly as he draws back to face Astarion. You haven't gotten me just yet, no matter that he can't seem to stop grinding against his thigh— nor shuddering each time those clever fingers tug on his tail.]
Could I endure it? Having you so desperately ravenous to touch me— taste me— that you can't help but drag me into an alley and put your mouth on me. One hand between my thighs while the other tugs my tail, seeing how loudly you can make me moan as you glide your prick against me and promise to fuck me if only I'll beg you sweetly for it . . . I suspect I could endure it, Astarion, yes.
But that isn't what I want.
[Reaching back, he takes Astarion's hands (quietly mourning the loss of those fingers combing through his tail) and pins them lightly against his shoulders. White teeth flash as he bites his lip, emerald eyes hooded with desire.]
I want you to give me the most loving sex of my life— and given what you have offered me over the past four years, Astarion, I suspect that will be more of a challenge than you expect. I want to fuck on a bed, not hidden away while we fumble for room. I want to fuck the way we used to, not with my magic to silence us or with limited tools, but with all the space and time and toys we desire.
I want, [he says, and wends his way closer, blunt teeth catching against the soft skin of Astarion's jaw over and over,] to sprawl out on the bed and hear the way you groan for how my tail lifts for you. I want to feel your fingers in my hair as you pin my face to the mattress and listen to me scream as you fuck me hard enough to break the bed, forgetting every word except please. I want to be so filled with your come that I drip it, and worship you with my tongue and my throat until you finish on my face— claimed on both ends.
And I want to tie you to the bed. I want to listen to the way you groan as I tease your fangs, fucking your mouth with two fingers while I bounce on your prick. I want to pin your legs back and fuck you slowly, watching you melt beneath me all the while.
[He draws back again.]
I want to go to that brothel, amatus.
And I know you have self-control enough to make it there, for you have before.
So.
[He leans down, offering Astarion one languid, indulgent kiss: their mouths moving together with molten indulgence once, twice, before Leto breaks away with a little gasp. Sitting up (as much as he's able to, anyway), he gathers his cloak around him.]
The Fey Fox is six blocks away, and the sun was setting when I came in. You can either walk with me— or you may meet me there, and see what surprise I may have in store for you when you walk in.
[Either way, he has every intention of climbing back out of the coffin and heading towards the brothel. Thank the Maker for cloaks that cover not just ears and tails, but a notable swell at the front of his trousers.]
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Astarion doesn't want to be left behind.
He doesn't want to be more than a step away at any point in time, no, but less so in the second that their kiss is broken with a faint pop of hungry suction, as if the laws of physics bend their necks to the very same desires: stay, it bellows through the hollow pits within his bones. Stay, he echoes in response, its singular syllable blown back against his lips with a scrape of decompression— coffin lid raised high enough to let in all the sights and sounds and smells that wipe clean the focused slate of his vampiric senses (what once was only Leto now invokes a flooding clamor as that seal is broken: roasting meat and puppy nails across hardwood, a bickering contest over where the weapon oil went and a faint demonic whiff of sulfur— nevermind the city just outside, barely held back by windowpanes). If he was impatient before, he's more impatient than ever now, already up across his knees to follow suit before common sense returns, and he realizes what he must look like in his rush to find his feet.
Two parts of him. The vampire that would rather die than wait, and Astarion, who thankfully has the better part of two hundred years of experience in anticipation's worth.]
Go, then.
[Muttered with a bite to one tattooed, cloak-covered throat that scruffs instead of sinking in. Like getting in the last word, it's a substitute for what he'd rather have, made heavier with strain— and it lasts only a moment before he's vanished in a streak of crimson mist.
There, and not.
(In actuality, his boots are pacing out a rhythm all their own atop the Fey Fox's high roof. In actuality he's been waiting all of fifteen minutes attempting to fan down the heat of his own swollen prick where it's jammed right against the stupid lacework of his inseam at an uncomfortable angle, telling himself that eventually he'll 'cool off' and 'regain control'— as if that's ever fucking worked before in the whole of his unlife. Like an animal he circles his own footfalls, and when that fails he shifts into his winged, batty counterpart, tucking the fan of his fingers tightly round himself to form a vibrating little cocoon of agitation. Urgency.
And then he catches it, that scent.)
He lasts barely three minutes of restraint before the tavern window's clawed open from outside, nearly yanked off of its hinges; pale claws sunk into the windowframe with his other arm whilst he tries to (noisily) squeeze in like a cat through the wrong side— barely halfway in past his own hips, his red eyes wide and overly dilated.]
—are you—
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