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[illithidnapped]

[One truth in all his lightless years:

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—