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faderift2022-09-05 11:08 am
faderifting) wrote in faderift2022-09-05 11:08 am
MOD PLOT ↠ BEFORE THE GATES | OPEN LOG
WHO: Anyone
WHAT: A race to a Gate, with detours
WHEN: Late August to mid Kingsway
WHERE: Arlathan Forest
NOTES: See also OOC post, puzzle log.
WHAT: A race to a Gate, with detours
WHEN: Late August to mid Kingsway
WHERE: Arlathan Forest
NOTES: See also OOC post, puzzle log.
Intel out of Hasmal and the Antivan borderlands suggest the enemy has abruptly changed gears, hurriedly redeploying most of the teams that have been busy combing the southern end of the Hundred Pillars north, to the edge of the Arlathan Forest. The only plausible explanation is that they've got a hot lead on another gate, more urgent than whatever they've been (so far fruitlessly) searching for north of Starkhaven. This provides Riftwatch with an opportunity to finally beat the Venatori to a Gate and prevent them from opening it—but they're going to have to move fast.
Helpfully, previous surveys of the Crossroads located an eluvian only a few hours' walk away that leads into the Arlathan Forest, so the enemy's head start in terms of travel time can be swiftly made up. The fact that the Venatori have brought so many of their search teams up from the south suggests they don't know exactly where in the forest the Gate is, but there's no telling what clues they might be working on and they out-number Riftwatch, so it's all hands on deck to scour the ruins strewn throughout the forest and find it first.
I. HOME BASE
The eluvian Riftwatch is using is located inside an expansive chamber, so cool, dark, and quiet that it might initially be mistaken for a cave. Or not even mistaken, exactly. It is both cavernous and underground. But when torches are held near the cavern walls, they reveal a wall within the wall, smooth dolomite bricks with large, arcing windows that frame nothing but sheets of limestone, both smoothed and in some places receding in rivulets where water has been seeping through for hundreds of years. Young limestone stalactites are beginning to creep in through the windows.
In summary: a room within a cave, scattered with ancient stone benches in various states of crumbling and more recent additions made of wood, cloth, and vine, all partially rotten. One of its two expansive doorways opens on a stone corridor, perfectly straight, between three smaller rooms. The smallest looks like a shrine, walls adorned with a crumbling mosaic of the elven pantheon. Another room was not always a bathroom, but in the past century or two someone has fashioned it into one, harnessing a rivulet that's streaming and seeping from somewhere beyond the cavern walls to build a stone bath reminiscent of a fountain, overflowing into smaller pools before the water is swept out of the room altogether by the stream's disappearance through the wall. The water tastes of limestone, but it's fresh and safe to drink.This is where Riftwatch sets up its temporary base of operations for the search of the forest. Carting supplies across the Crossroads and replenishing them from time to time is simple enough. Someone even thinks to bring hay to spread beneath the bedrolls in one of the smaller rooms. The central chamber is lit by the glow of the eluvian, torches, and lyrium glowlights, ultimately bright enough to do paperwork. Some people make a routine out of doing their normal ("normal") work here, for the time being, to be on hand if there's an emergency or to save themselves the walk back through the Crossroads between stints in the woods. A map of Arlathan Forest—a bad one, at least at first—is spread over a wooden table that's gone soft and spongy with age and moisture; it wouldn't support a man's weight anymore, but it can hold a map and the markers used to keep track of which areas have been searched, where Corypheus' people have been spotted, and which landmarks seem promising.
The second doorway in the chamber opens to stairs. Stairs down. This structure was once above, not below. But two stories deeper into the earth, the stairs give way to a natural cavern, no sign of elven construction in sight, with a draft that guides visitors through a narrow passage and out into the forest.
II. CITYWIDE GREEN INITIATIVE
Arlathan Forest is not as tropical as the Donarks that Riftwatch found themselves stranded in a few years ago, but it is far enough north to be warm, humid, dense, and deeply green, home to a constant symphony of buzzing and chirping and squeaking and the occasional (hopefully) distant snarl or growl. Of particular note are the presence of alligators, jaguars, and small elephants, along with the usual collection of smaller wildlife and the elusive halla.
Wild as it is, the forest doesn't allow anyone to forget that it was once a city. In the heart of the forest the terrain is cliffy and jagged in a way that suggests that, rather than the city only sinking into the earth, the earth might have risen to meet it halfway: there are towering, sheer-faced rock formations that evoke the image of buildings several stories tall, now encased in stone and plant life. Sometimes a vine-covered fragment of roof- or tower-top emerges from the top of one of these rock formations, or an expanse of brick wall from the sides. They're all in an ancient elven style familiar from, if nothing else, the Crossroads everyone walked through to get here. The lower, marshy land between them–in some places occupied with streams or wider rivers–have occasional patches of tiled stone where roads once ran instead.
There are signs, too, of more recent occupation since the ancient city of Arlathan was swallowed by the earth. Forest-dwellers from within the last age have built walkways and bridges among the cliffs and rock formations that occasionally still hold up. They've left behind tools, collapsing huts, signs of occupation in caves, and occasionally a more recent skeleton or three. And there are rarer signs of the Dalish who still occupy the forest: arrows embedded in tree trunks, statues of wolves or other symbols of the pantheon, a few old abandoned camps, a damaged aravel. III. MORE MAGIC MORE PROBLEMS
Of course, this is not a normal ancient city swallowed by the earth and left to become a wild forest over the course of more than a thousand years. It's a magical one.
Alongside the bugs and birds and creatures occupying the forest are spirits, in more abundance than most people have ever seen them. There are small swarms of wisps drifting like butterflies around objects of interest to them, and more humanoid, ghostly, temperamental wraiths drifting over marshlands. A very rare wraith will have a voice, a name, and perhaps an errand to ask or a bargain to make. Shades wait in caves, and demons of any kind might be discovered waiting for victims in the nooks and crannies of the woods–but in particular the sylvans for which the forest is known, which any traveler passing nearby is warned to watch for.
Less common are the Forest Guardians. Easily missed among the rocky, viney landscape until they begin to move, they're massive constructions of wood and stone, tall as golems, with vine-covered stone bodies, walking on four wooden legs bound to stone feet covered in runes and moss. They remain immobile until attacks on the forest (or someone drawing enough magical power to disturb the Veil) rouse them. Then they wake to hunt the perpetrators with two wooden arms that end in thick metal blades imbued with lyrium. The arms swing in predictable patterns–they're enchanted, not thinking. And with sufficient force, they can be "killed."
Between all of this and the unfamiliarity of the landscape, it may take time to notice the biggest problem of all, which is: time is fucked.
At its mildest, traversing the same ground might take an hour going one way but two or three hours going the other, as if it's stretched out somehow, despite no clear changes to the landscape to justify the added time. If there is added time? They may burn through rations and tire as if a whole day has passed, while the sun hangs unmoving in the sky or it stays dark for just as long, and return to the base camp to find they've been gone only a few days instead of the weeks they thought. And even a confident navigator may march confidently north for several hours before realizing they've been going south the whole time (or have they).
The effects become more severe the closer to the center of the ancient city one goes. At some point a team might find themselves going in circles no matter what they do to avoid it. And that's not the worst of it. If someone is inventive enough to begin marking a passed landmark with tally marks, they'll find the count flickering back and forth each time they pass it, requiring them to put the marks down out of order: their second time past the stone, then their seventh, then their fourth.
Their sending crystals work—erratically. Sometimes not at all. Sometimes with long waits between answering messages. Sometimes with responses to the five questions they asked in silence arriving out of order. To those on the other end–or those waiting for them when they arrive back at Riftwatch's underground base—nothing unusual will seem to be happening, and their trips back and forth no longer than expected.And it gets worse!
Through all of this, visitors to the forest may begin to see themselves and others in their traveling party, some distance ahead or behind them–mirroring their actions, having conversations, before or after the real ones do or did or might have done the same. While you're not oblivious to them, they are oblivious to you–the best way to tell the real from the mirage. Except they are not exactly mirages. They affect the world around them. A bridge that breaks beneath their feet ahead of you will still be broken when you reach it; should you break the bridge, the copies behind you will stop at the destruction to plan another way around.
No one is bound to the fates of these forwards- and backwards-echoes: should a double fall off a cliff ahead of you, you can choose to be more careful or avoid the area altogether to prevent the same mishap. Attacking animals, demons, and enemies will see them, as well as you, and may be convinced to go after them instead. Or they may pick them off ahead of you, giving you some forewarning of what you're about to step into.
Despite their apparent solidity in these moments, they don't last. The branches they have bent will remain bent, their footprints will remain printed, and the debris that tumbles over a cliff's edge with them will remain piled at the bottom, but they themselves inevitably disappear when no one is looking. They're only people who might have been.
IV. THE AMAZING RACE
Anyway, Riftwatch didn't come here to hang out with possessed trees and walk in endless circles for fun. Teams are sent into the woods in specific directions or in pursuit of particular landmarks, combing the forest for signs of a Gate or the Gate itself. They may travel three or four days in one direction—three or four real days, however brief or long they feel to those doing the traveling—before reaching their destinations. Along the way they'll have to make and break camp in the safest places they can find, forage and hunt to supplement their rations, and keep their eyes peeled for the forest's other intruders.
Corypheus' people are here too. Venatori, Red Templar, or corrupted Wardens and various lackeys have fanned out within the forest, searching for the same things Riftwatch is. Intelligence indicates they don't know for certain that a Gate is nearby. Riftwatch would like to keep it that way, so the rules are a little different this time. They can't know that Riftwatch is here. Everyone who ventures into the forest will be required to dress like they could be hunters, bandits, or recluses. And anyone who could report that Riftwatch is there can't leave the forest alive, and they need to look like they've been killed by something or someone other than Riftwatch.
This could mean ambushes and traps, herding them into angry wildlife or forest monsters (or vice versa), arranging for mysterious accidents, anything that maintains the Venatori's illusion that they are in a one horse race to the Gate. And in the meantime, the enemy search parties need to be tracked, misled, and thwarted whenever possible, and any information they have—clues they're following, records of areas already searched, maps—stolen or, if that's not possible, destroyed.
Sometimes these plans will be complicated by the presence of time-rippling doppelgangers. Your team might agree to sneak up on an enemy camp in silence, only for copies of you who came to some other agreement, apparently, to launch a coordinated fire-raining attack in the background. Or they might be ahead of you when you sneak in, oblivious to your presence while they beat you to slitting throats or stealing notes. During firefights it may not be possible to tell whether the person you've just watched die is your friend or only one of their echoes. And Corypheus' people are suffering the same effects: a man you ambush on the trail might only be a double of the real man, arriving on the scene a minute later to see himself already dead on the ground, suddenly very on guard.
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[Hesitation might as well be a word he's never learned— alongside restraint, and inhibition, and modesty— at least as far as Leto is involved: the moment that soot-soaked tongue unfurled beneath one roaming fingertip (he is a predator at heart still, too quick to note the glossy well of glistening spit intermingling with flecks of glittering sand on a near microscopic level), Astarion's already twisted around on his heels, black feathers rustling around his lowered shoulders like a fanning mane. Toes perched beside splayed fingers, posture both weightless and formless in the segue that repositions him across Leto's lap instead— opened joint knocked into the dirt, bits of elfroot vanishing into a sea of wood charr brown.
His weight is comfortably heavy. His thighs straddle narrow hips, armor jabbing here and there, but none of it hedges on uncomfortable. His free hand anchors itself to the center of the other elf's chest, and he— ironically— smells smoke in the air when he leans down slowly over the open offer of a waiting mouth.
And yet what would Astarion be, if not excessive in his mischief?
At the very last second— with all the speed of a viper twisting its neck to snatch up scurrying prey— he drags the full flat of his tongue across the cache of midnight powder still clutched within his palm, and uses that very same momentum to turn and seize Leto's mouth with his own: a locking kiss that's as drenched in kohl as it is raw lust. Too many fears, too little privacy— its alchemical endpoint being not enough satiety between them since stepping beyond Kirkwall's bounds (and if he doesn't look at his anchor shard, the same way he doesn't look at spirits or elvhen ruins, his mind does the work of pretending it isn't there). He's an underexercised peregrine turning restlessness on a waiting glove.
What fills his touch is as warm and yielding as what fills his mouth in those few seconds. Again, and again— taking an inch and giving— no, only taking, actually. His sharp teeth nipping and scraping even when he pulls away to catch his breath, kiss-glossed grin so lopsided it might as well be sideways.]
—nice to see you haven't lost your bite alongside your bark. [Gloved thumb resting against the elf's lower lip— Astarion presses in a gentler imitation of the way someone might pry a wolf's muzzle open. Not forcing it, only insisting, really.
Crimson eyes the bloodiest shade in the shadow of long lashes, searching out the color of Leto's tongue.]
Hm.
[Low. Light.]
I don't feel anything yet. [Maybe they've done this wrong? Leto could've been right, after all: the thing is called 'smoke', not 'pour it over your tongue like an unattended child in a vat of sugar'.]
—Do you?
no subject
Maker, he really is addicted, he thinks in dazed amusement. It's only been a few days, but it might as well have been a few months for the heated hunger that only grows with every pulsing push and pull of their lips. More, more, and Astarion is so keen on taking, but he isn't the only one: Leto bites when Astarion draws back, nipping his lip too sharply in petulant protest. Don't stop, though his chest is heaving for lack of air. For a moment he does nothing but stare up at him, his eyes locked on spit-slick lips— but oh, that's a good question.]
Mph. No. Not yet.
[But it's only been a few moments. In the meantime . . . Leto's nose wrinkles as he pulls at the clasp of Astarion's pauldrons. He can give or take feathers, but he does not particularly enjoy seeing Astarion in his Dalish guise. It's not bad, exactly, it's just . . . discomfiting, perhaps, is the word. Besides: Astarion looks far better half-naked, if you ask Leto, so what's the downside?]
What are we meant to be feeling? I have never—
[His fingers are still fumbling with the clasp. He remembers that later, when the drugs have cleared out of their system and he's coherent once more. He's fumbling with the clasp, his mouth achingly kiss-sore, his tongue tasting of nothing so much as smoke, and he's wondering when he's meant to be feeling anything—
And just like that, everything drops.
It's not unpleasant. It's un-unpleasant, Leto thinks with dreamy amusement. The opposite of unpleasant. It's like . . . it's like being separate from his body, or his mind is untethered, or . . . something. He's not stupid, he knows where they are and what's happening, but oh . . . mmph, it doesn't really seem to matter much right now, does it? It's all distant details, a faded backdrop as he tips his head up and catches sight of the most beautiful person he's ever seen, glowing like starlight above him.]
It's, ah . . . yes. A bit.
[A bit. It's only a little bit relaxing, a little bit of a drop— or is it a lot? His eyes try to dart up, focusing on Astarion's face instead of just drinking him in as a whole, but it takes him ages. He blinks deliberately as his hands slide slowly down his torso, tracing over sweat-damp skin and snagging against darkened leather . . . mmph, he likes Astarion in leather. He likes him in a lot of things, but not, and this is important, not as a Dalish. It's a necessary disguise, yes, but still. He shouldn't have it on anymore— and yet he does, impudent thing. So rude. So terribly rude, and it's about that time Fenris realizes he's been doing nothing but staring very intently up at Astarion for the past few minutes.]
no subject
Strangely, he feels in control of himself despite it all.
Or perhaps— no, in control is too strong a phrasing. He feels himself despite it all: able to think and comprehend spacial awareness just as surely as ever, but the sluggish disconnect between body and mind is so potent, there's no reconciling the difference— his mental input's more limpid than molasses, he tries to steer himself and either winds too far forward or too far back, still licking his own chops to lap up the ashen taste of electricity and rainfall after a blaze. Petrichor smoke. Split ozone. Leto.
(Oh, love. Oh, beautiful wolf— dark in his shadow, carved from bright lyrium and white hair and gold-green eyes. Oh, oh— )
And then he feels himself jostle again beneath tugging fingers. One yank— two. Clasp rattling loudly in his ears.]
Will you stop fuss— [The noise he makes is almost a growl, for what it's worth, lip curling high around a warning flash of overlong canines. The reward for shaking him from his reverie. How long have they been sitting here like this? how long has— ]
—stop fussing.
[Another latent pull from sinking fingertips running hot across dark leather snags the last bit of his own heady patience: he swats at Leto's closest hand with his own, bristling like a cat whose fur's been rubbed wrong.
Rude. So terribly rude]
Quit pawing at me, if you want me to undress, you only have to— [Elegant creature that he is, his heel abruptly slips in the struggle to readjust himself, and he lurches forward to plant both palms on Leto's chest, displaced heel kicking (and overturning that half-finished bottle of wine), eliciting a bark of stupid laughter, forehead pressed over Leto's own. Exhale sweet as spice and smoke, and cool, even in the depths of so much humidity.]
Now look what you've done.
—ask nicely, wicked pup.
[Truthfully? He doesn't want to stay clothed in this mess. It's warm, and his head is spinning, and he wants to kiss his darling as much as he wants to bite those fingers for tugging— which is why he grabs them with his own hands. Dizzy and swaying, smirking like he's all too eager to swallow the nearest canary, even if there's nothing else around but one very pretty wolf.]
no subject
[It's not the falsely thoughtful retort it might have been a few minutes ago, a spirited taunt that served as open invitation to bite and growl and fight. Instead: it's all but dreamy, Leto's eyes black and, though slightly unfocused, still locked on Astarion's face. Everything comes at such a distance right now, registered and immediately dismissed as unimportant. The wine is spilling (indeed, he can feel it soaking into his trousers, hot and sticky); he thinks (dreamily, so distantly) that normally, Astarion does like a bit more finesse. Not romance, exactly, but foreplay, oh, yes. Teasing remarks and hungry kisses, breathless flirtations murmured to one another as they race to undress, oh, yes, he likes that so very much. Normally right now Leto would lean up to steal a kiss, placating and teasing both. Or perhaps (more likely) he'd stoke him on further: tearing at his clothes, yanking at him so Astarion could moan eagerly about how brutish he was being before sinking his fangs deep into him.
But Leto thinks only in straight lines now (and then again they aren't straight at all, looping and wheeling like songbirds finally allowed to fly before being coaxed back into their flight pattern). The simplest and most direct path seems easiest. Quit pawing at me, Astarion scolds, and one dark eyebrow raises in quiet curiosity. His hand is caught between Astarion's own, but his other rises, slipping between them. It happens within the space of a breath: his fingers twitching up, the edge of one gauntlet catching and slicing through leather like a hot knife through butter.
There. Much easier than fumbling with buckles, Leto thinks with hazy satisfaction, watching as his pauldrons and outer layers suddenly go slack around his shoulders.]
I do not think I have to, Astarion.
[Let him keep his other hand. Let him stay pressed so close, his breath sweet against Leto's lips, their noses bumping together even as he smirks impudently up at him. One quick movement shoves that pauldron off Astarion's shoulders, and just like that, some of his amatus is returned to him. There's still that false vallaslin to contend with, but . . . Leto's smirk grows, his chin tipping up in unmistakable self-satisfaction as his fingers drag down.
He's so good with his gauntlets. He has to be, his claws as sharp as knives, easily capable of splitting skin and cleaving flesh— he has to be so terribly deft no matter what he does. So though he's high, though his mind reels, though the world is slowly dissolving and he feels a contented euphoria unlike any he's ever known before— still, there's such deftness to the way he traces the tip of his gauntlet down the line of Astarion's chest, exerting just enough pressure to sting without outright breaking skin.]
Ask nicely, filthy thing, and I shall spare the rest of your clothes, hm?
[His voice roughened, his smirk melting into something more reckless as his claws reach the hem of Astarion's trousers, tugging teasingly at the hem.]
Or shall the whole camp get an eyeful of you . . .?
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He's too dazed; for a moment he forgets Leto's gauntlets exist (it's only on this mission that he's finally seen them taken from their fixed place within the mansion)— and his spinning mind instead imagines that his beloved companion unfurls gleaming claws like some great cat leaping after prey, too slow to react before it's done: cooler air smacking into his skin from his throat down across the center of his breastbone, eliciting a rolling shiver that prickles underneath perfectly arranged fingertips— and forces his profile a few degrees more harshly against Leto's in turn.
It's exhilarating.
He lets out a low hitch of sucked-in breath as his head drops back, unable to play coy for as long as those knife-sharp assets meander as they please. Beast, he thinks he mutters over the shape of a tightening grip. Or maybe it's brute, or bastard— something with a b— he's busy sipping down starlight like a bottle of Abyssal Peach; he can't tell down from up anymore, and fasta vass, he doesn't at all care to.
All that churlish muttering wedged in before he (sort of) hears 'I do not think I have to', and part of him agrees. The part of him that's bare. The part of him that's so happy just to have his darling perched and purring beneath him, that he'd do anything to hear Leto take to whining or pleading or outright moaning in upended bliss— his troubled mind clear and his body listlessly sprawled to the very last centimeter, all that lyrium quieted for once....or for longer (Astarion's a creature of excess by nature, when all's said and done, and vampirism means he hasn't forgotten the corruptive urge to push for more). How pretty, he thinks, Leto would look like this for weeks at a time. Or for months. Or always—
Cut short by the tug of fingers at his hem.
Oh, it might've taken an eternity for him to look down, and one more for him to realize what he's staring at, but in the end, Astarion's smokestruck brain finally puts two and two together when he spots pale skin bright and deeply contrasted against a framing sprawl of dark, unlatched leather. His shoulders are bare. Feathers somewhere else (behind him, which might as well be the fucking moon for how stupidly narrow his addled focus is), calf and thigh wet from wine, that— ah. That's right, he'd spilled it. Wine. Was it wine? No, elfroot. No, it must've been smoke. And Leto—
Leto cut his armor.
(Twice-confirmed truth briefly tempered by the actuality that it's nothing short of impressive, how much control the man's still masterfully exercising in this state.
....it's also absolutely infuriating.)]
I'll show you asking nicely—
[And in a flash Astarion's dropped his hold on Leto's other hand, both of his own latching onto straight white locks— drawing the marked elf's head back in order to bare his throat in supine surrender, Astarion's jagged fangs open and poised to bite.
Mm, but the problem is, he's high. Higher by the minute, even, and so all that fearsome predatory drive is lazy outside the idling measure of his cognitive awareness. He sees tattoo lines on approach, embossed and glassy— and he salivates rather than solely seethes by the time he reaches them, his inevitable assault fierce but ultimately (unintendedly) carnal, his hips rocking forward without much care for how he might draw blood from pushing himself right into those perched talons time and time again.
Another scolding bite added between each word spoken:]
Quit— ruining— my disguise— impius parum minas.
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Too addled, too, to keep track of his talons. Truthfully, he barely knows he has them on; he barely remembers he has hands, or a body, or that he, himself, is a person. Blood spills over his fingers, hot and wet, and some part of him dully registers he must have cut Astarion (twice, he'll figure out later, razor-sharp scratches that are more inconvenient than dangerous). He smears it idly against his skin as he blindly runs a hand over him, smoothing against bare skin, grinning up at the moon like a fool as he does.]
I like you better without your disguise.
[It's absolutely true, though there's a vague attempt to sound flirtatiously coy. Needle-sharp claws drag against bare skin as Leto's hand meanders, teasing Astarion into arching his back, heat coursing through him when he hears a sharp inhale.]
You are no Dalish, no more than I am. Noli abscondere, non a me . . . mm, take the rest of it off.
[The rest being Astarion's trousers— which he cuts a small slice into, right at the hem. It's barely noticeable and easily fixed, but on the other hand, who said Leto intends to stop there? They are a little ways from camp, but the truth is, Leto doesn't remember there are others near. He doesn't remember where they are or why he was so damned nervous all day; he doesn't even remember what year it is. All he knows is that Astarion feels so good against him, hot and heavy and perfect, and all he wants to do is lose himself in him.]
Now.
no subject
Ah, not right now, of course—
Right now, Astarion's entirely oversaturated by everything else in play: too overstimulated to be numb, too numb to be overstimulated— forming the strangest paradoxical coexistence Astarion's conscious mind has ever tried to simultaneously stuff down into its own greedy gullet, leaving no room for sentimental pondering, only touch and sensory pressure and desire and drug (and smoke, and smoke, and smoke)— but sometimes, yes, he wonders if that's why there's always such a sudden pique to Leto's responses, whenever Astarion opts to flex his budding linguistic prowess. Other moments when he can operate around the sensual incompatibility of too much and too little, busier and busier now with his present preoccupation: dragging his tongue over welling bite marks. Appeasably lapping at bruising skin.
Oh, be pretty for him again. Moan for him again. Leto the songbird. Leto, his vicious hunter. A thousand little flickers of breathy praise dripping from his wicked mouth, glossier than beading drops of ruby or garnet— the necklace he weaves for his beloved counterpart with pure, unfiltered devotion the way bitter liqueur is often dipped in molten sugar.
He's forgotten where his own hands are.
—actually, he's forgotten he has hands.]
Non dissimulo tibi. [He scoffs as leather splits almost silently. A dull hiss Astarion can only feel while drinking in Leto's words. Mm. It sounds sweet, though. The posed concept of hide and seek. That this is just Leto fussing over being kept at bay by false disguises and well-stitched tanning, all the more impatient for whatever gunpowder tang's still slithering across his tongue.
But even intoxicated Astarion is a shrewd Astarion, apparently. Incorrigible and playful— particularly feeling the tack of his own blood. He grins so wide when he sits back, shedding thick layers via roaming fingers, deliberately arching just as he'd been bade to by those hands. Neck craned higher, lips parted and vulgarly flush, granting a glimpse of sharp teeth.
His eyes are hooded. He pants more than he breathes, leaving the tip of his tongue visible and gleaming with slickness against his lower fangs. Is this what you like, pup? Is this how you pictured him surrendering? Obedient and supple and hotter than the kindled campfire somewhere off behind him.
Another clasp slips free, shoulders and chest and upper arms fully exposed. He's halfway through shedding it with odalisque theatricism when he lets out a deliberate exhale:]
Ah, but it's grown on me these last few days, you know. Being out here with all the....dirt. And the mud. And molding, decrepit temples. It's all very peaceful. Very serene. And besides, the feathers look good on me.
[And, in such a distinctly affected accent:]
Maybe I want to be Dalish.
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It's just that he can't help but fall for it every single time.
He's bound to it, unable to break free from the call and response Astarion so gleefully leads him down— and it's funny, for at first glance, it's Leto who's nominally in charge. Leto who told Astarion to strip; Leto who sits in his clothing and armor, staring at the show currently squirming pleasantly in his lap. And yet Astarion has him spellbound: a vision in the darkness, his skin pale and his teeth gleaming, his crimson eyes utterly hypnotic. Leto pants up at him, echoing him unconsciously, his body melting as he watches: yes, this is what he likes. Yes, this is what he pictured, and he doesn't dare reach up yet, too spellbound to risk the show ending.
But then Astarion speaks. And there's the taunt, for this is not just seduction, but baiting flirtation: come take me, little pup, his darling taunts, knowing damn well that domination solicited is no domination at all. It's the worst (it's the best, oh, how he shivers and thrives under it), and he knows exactly what's happening, and he's helpless to it either way.
Maker, he loves him so much. This bratty little bat . . . a sharp pain cuts his thoughts short; all at once Leto realizes he's biting his lip, his cock straining against his trousers as he openly covets the other man.]
Stop that. Stop that—
[His accent, he means. Stop that, and quick as a flash he wraps his talons around the back of Astarion's neck, forcibly drawing him down for a kiss. And another, biting, his tongue thrusting forward to part eager lips, his head dipping forward as he claims his mouth again and again, mine, don't run from me, my darling, you're mine, don't ever forget you're mine, until at last his lungs ache with the lack of air and he's forced to fall back. He's panting, his chest rising and falling sharply, his eyes dark as he keeps his claws around Astarion's neck.
It isn't a cruel grip. He does not seek to hurt him (oh, never)— but there is always a bit of bite in their play, and tonight is no different. The tips of his claws curve against the soft skin of Astarion's throat, tracing out the lines of his neck, teasing against his pulsepoint with dreamy precision.]
Convince me you truly want to live in the dirt, brat, and perhaps I will fight harder. [What a liar he is. The tone is right, his voice richly amused, but there's a fervor in his gaze that can't be denied. Don't you dare run from me, as predatory as it is hungry.] Tell me all about how you long for insects and foliage instead of lingering in front of a warm fire, legs spread as you bounce atop my cock, drinking wine like the indulged thing you are . . . go on. Tell me the mud is better.
[I love you, his heart whispers, but addled through the smoke and his own growing arousal, it becomes something a predatory sort of hunger, dark and hot. I love you I love you I love you, and don't pretend to leave, not even a little, not even as a joke, for you're mine.]
cw for all things Astarion, as always
Wear them always, he wants to say in the middle of their sport— and might have, admittedly— off topic and obscenely unfixed, considering the willing length of his own stretched-out neck, left both arched and bare as he breathes so slowly (inhale, exhale) that his lungs sting for sucking in humid air. Red marks etched over pristine skin, rising and falling, overflowing with heady sentiment he doesn't know how to suppress: I love you I love you I love you, I'd never leave, not even in jest— but I have to tease, it's in my nature—
He's stiff as diamonds in Leto's lap. Obvious as firelight in the half-lit dark. And it isn't shameful to be held like that: almost entirely unclothed and resting on his knees in the middle of the night—
What's opprobrium, after all, to a vampire spawn?
He's done this too many times to count across decades. Centuries. At the snap of a finger or for a few uttered words, it was as much a part of wholly sadistic banality as mopping bloodstained floors or sweeping at lines of ash with tacky fingers. And in the hollows of drug and drink, his story retroactively shifts into a prettier one than what it once was; instead of entertaining a faceless silhouette whose only landmark is the bruising on his ribs, he arches over emerald eyes too bright to be real, rumbling pleasantly in his own throat for attention from a stranger he's known and never met. Hello spelled out by his sinuous movements— the incessant rocking of his hips the first choice he's ever made— hello again stitched together by the open hang of his own mouth, serpent-deft tongue lathing and lapping and sucking on a nearby claw to prove his own prowess.
It's only a flicker, understand.
Later, he'll realize it was just a waking dream. A narrow hallucination that only felt real because he'd steeped their minds in enough smoke to drown half the Tevinter forces in Arlathan— but here and now, if anyone were to ask him when he and Leto met, he'd say it happened in Toril. Centuries ago. His master's keen watch spent mercifully elsewhere, Baldur's Gate possessing a forest in its streets.
When he moves to guide Leto's binding hold around his throat tighter (such a fun little parlor trick, proving how unimportant air is without directly confessing his own vampirism), one hand slides across that token again. That's what undoes time's knotted weave. Reminds him that he's not still Astarion the inept spawn. Astarion the cherished. Astarion the reviled.
Only Thedas.
Only Astarion.
So don't forget the game. Don't forget (how damned pretty Leto looks in a fit, green eyes narrowed in bristling frustration or rampant laughter)—
It takes everything to set his own expression.Years spent snatching souls between his teeth like stolen pearls, and he only barely manages:]
Would you still love me if I was one? [Cheshire grin a picturebook show of jagged fangs pinched around that settled claw— shoving his own weight forward to pin Leto against the massive bend of that fallen tree trunk, tigerine and sharp. Oh, the Dalish might be wild— but in his corrupted, bleak, hateful, hungry heart— he is wilder in ways they never could be.]
I adore the dirt. [He loathes it;] the stench of halla. [repugnant prey animals that reek of shit and piss and life inglorious;] I love worshipping gods that ignore desperate cries for help, happily abandoning their own supposed children to rot in mortal fetters. [Bitterness slips across his expression, his grip painfully tight for a lone, fearful flicker that's as keen as a dagger slid softly into his side— holding fast to Leto like a starved man guarding crumbs in his own shaking hands, don't you dare leave me—
Oh, stop. Don't you dare ruin this game, Astarion.
Resolute despite being uniquely frayed, his grip unclenches. His smile eases back into something less severe, subtle when it reaches red eyes.]
Mm. I hope your ancestors see this. [Purring. Mean. The pale not-Dalish elf's lithe outline already back to grinding over what parts of Leto he keeps pinned.] I hope they hear how much you whine for me, petulant little nuisance that you are. [mine, mine, mine—] So spoiled you can't even stand to let me dress as something free-roaming.
Come here, da'len. I'll teach you a thing or two about the dread w—
2/2
A flash bang rupture of green light and Ataashi is there, heavy snout shoved between them so rapidly that Astarion squawks in upset, having nicked his own lip in the fray against the claw he'd been wantonly teasing at, puffing through his own nose from the sprawling heap of— well, himself that he's ended up in, tangled around Leto's legs on his (thankfully clothed) ass.]
—I'm going to skin that mangy, flea-ridden—
[Snuffling, she ignores him in favor of spitting out a heavy, strange object. Dropping it fully into Leto's lap and looking to him for approval, her tail sedately wagging.
If Astarion had a sovereign for the number of times that a teleporting Fade-wolf has interrupted him without warning to cough something up onto Leto's lap— he'd have two sovereigns, actually. But it's weird that it happened twice.]
1/2
Good girl, what have you found this time?
[He really oughtn't praise her like this, for it only encourages her to phase her way between them whenever she wants attention. But she's been taking more initiative to go and fetch objects lately, and he wants to encourage that as much as he can. It isn't that all her separation anxiety is disappeared, no (she certainly wouldn't let them leave on this trip without her), but the more she learns they'll always be waiting for her no matter how far she strays, the better. So he praises her, murmuring wordless endearments as his fingers scrub and knot in her fur, my clever girl, so very brave,, and realizes only belatedly that perhaps he ought to tend to his beloved.
Settle, he tells Ataashi, their catch-all command for stay near, but off me that currently works about half the time. She's in an amiable mood, apparently, for she licks him once more, turns to Astarion to offer him one fond snuffle against his neck, and trots off to flop atop Leto's bedding. He turns his attention towards Astarion, still sprawled on his ass across Leto's shins.]
Are you all right?
[He's clearly fine, and Leto's tone betrays that: a quiet thread of goading concern, his grin bright in the darkness. His fingers still run over the object, feeling it out in the darkness. There's glassy components, he realizes: a large round window in the front, and a smaller one in back. There's decorations on it, little figurines and stickers, though it's too dark to make out what they depict. And . . . ah, a button, his fingers discover, sliding over it curiously.]
Did the dread wolf get you, hm? My poor Astarion, come here and I will keep you from harm.
[Oh, he's definitely goading now. But ah, wait, wait, and though he's still grinning, his attention switches down to the box. Peering down at it, he frowns. It really is nothing like he's ever seen before.]
2/2
[He means to hand it over to Astarion. Instead: his finger presses too hard against the button and there's a brilliant flashing burst of white light, a flare of what must surely be magic, for nothing else is so bright save the sun. It sears his eyes, leaving purple afterimages in his vision; he blinks wildly and drops the object, fingers pressing to his face— there's no harm done, none he can tell, but also, hey, what the fuck was that! He can even hear a whirring noise— the slide of a piece of paper slides out of the box seemingly from nowhere. It's grey and blank— although even as Leto thinks that, it begins to melt and shift, lines and images becoming clearer by the second.]
This is— do you know what this is?
[It's magical, clearly— and yet he cannot feel any magical energy radiating off it, so perhaps not. But if not magical, then what? Some Dalish artifact? Surely not. It seems far too strange for the Dalish, or even the Venatori, if it comes to that. Leto cautiously picks up the piece of paper, staring down at it as the image forms.
And it's—]
Me?
[Him. A portrait of him, more realistic than any he's ever seen. Him a few moments ago, his eyes refracting the light strangely, his expression a blur but unmistakably startled, his lyrium shining with an almost neon glow. Him, down to every detail, flushed and messy and drugged, and oh, he is not equipped to deal with this when he's this high.]
1/2
I'm amending my statement: [The slip of paper between long fingertips flitting back and forth whilst being wagged— fwip fwip fwip— ]
I'm going to skin and eat you both.
2/2
I—
....oh.
[Owlishly, his head tilts; he almost topples over trying to get a look at it, bewildered by an almost impossible sense of realism. Hells, even the paper itself doesn't feel right as he ungloves his hand and starts rubbing it between his fingerpads— thumb and forefinger both.] What in the Realms....?
[No, on second thought, he's lurching forward now, having taken up trying to outright swipe that strange relic from the man he very much loves, and would very much willingly bite just to have what he's holding.]
Give me that— let me see it. [More importantly:] What did you do?
no subject
I . . . pressed a button.
[Yes. That was it, and as if on command, his finger taps again. There's that brilliant blinding flash of light, this time directed Astarion's way: a lightning bolt followed by that familiar whirr as paper pops out once more. He can't very well tear it off with one hand, but he refuses to give Astarion an advantage in getting this strange box without asking nicely, so that piece of magic paper (developing even now, a smear of pale skin and white curls offset by the brilliance of crimson eyes flaring in the burst of light) will have to wait.]
Ask nicely and I will show you. Continue demanding it like the brat you are and I will keep Ataashi's treasure for her and myself only. You can suffer on your own.
no subject
[Astarion laughs. Not happily, mind you. Not because it's funny to him, no— incredulity bursting out of his open mouth, lips drawn back in a bitter sneer that's as readable as a rapidly flicking tail or a flensing scuffle. In his language (the one they both so fluently speak now), it's a clear-cut warning: bare weight already shoved against that gauntleted hand locked low across his hip. No, he will not ask nicely. He will not be doing anything nicely. Unruly and sharp and hot as their already spilled wine, too sloshed to think of anything in terms of moderation.
They're in the shores of pettiness now.]
You'd give a dog a gift over me? [One swipe aimed at the paper misses by a shameful mile— and that, despite being entirely his own folly, is the last straw apparently: pampered, loved, cherished Astarion....pitching a fucking fit because he can't have everything he wants the second he wants it, let alone with honey-minced praise or cloying recitation. Remember all that selflessness before they started lapping up smoke like giddy teenagers?
Neither does he.
Viper quick, he's latched onto the wrist within reach, the one still perched against his hip. He snatches the pet wolf's find as they tussle wildly (to the tune of a growl from Ataashi which— rude, she belonged to Astarion first), shaking it to dislodge the bit of paper still stuck to it before roughly pushing Leto's chin hard to one side, until it just kisses the dirt.]
I'd argue it's reasonably safe to say that if I suffer, it's because I'm putting up with you two day and night for months on end.
—Behave. [It takes less time for his neck to crane down between rolled shoulders, returning the injustice committed by claws against armor and feathers when his teeth tear the Blue Wraith's prized leathers wide open. Revenge mete out in steps rather than strides, capped off by a brilliant flash of light as Astarion holds their newfound acquisition over Leto's prone form and presses on whatever piece of it he'd crowishly observed his companion utilizing earlier— and sure enough, just as before, it seems to work.]
I safeguard you, I care for you, I mark you as my own [Unbeknownst to him, sometimes Astarion's the unintentional mirror to his master's mannerisms, already lifting his chin within the haughtiest mimicry of two centuries spent learning that the only thing worth a damn is knowing precisely where one stands in the present pecking order— ingrained in moments like these, when he's all puffing, showy pride. Tossing that device aside to prove a point. Pulling the paper from its mouth and admiring the crude, blooming sight of what it recorded— using his free hand to snap at the bit of cloth wrapped around Leto's wrist.] —and what do I get in return?
Disrespect. Dis—
....oh.
[Oh, what does he get in return, slowly running a little warmer as that odd enchanted painting(?) fully comes into focus. Tight grip abating by slow, slow degrees as he leans back, rapt with increasing fascination.
Someday, someone's going to diagnose this vampire with ADHD]no subject
. . . doesn't last for long, actually. There's the gorgeousness of smoke, for the instant he stops worrying about such a thing, it simply ceases to be. He's never had that before, not unless he was two bottles deep into some particularly strong wine. It's quite alluring, and it leaves him in a far better mood as he wriggles around, turning himself so he can settle on his back beneath the other man.
Far more comfortable. And a far better view, too, Astarion's eyes all wide and pretty as he stares down at the magic painting. Despite himself and all the pettiness coursing through his veins, still, some part of Leto smiles faintly. It is thrilling. Thrilling and bewildering and strange and new, and he does not understand it, not at all.]
Tell me what you see.
[He busies himself with removing his armor— easy, now that his straps have all been bitten through. Pauldrons and breastplate are shed, leaving him in a thin tunic and his claws. His hands run slowly up Astarion's thighs (oh, it's so tempting to nick him, Behave, oh, he'll show him just how badly behaved he can be, but ah, not just yet), his smile fading as it occurs to him what might be in that portrait.
Who's to say it records only from life, after all? Who's to say it doesn't lie or twist the truth around? He can't have gotten a photo of much, but what if there's something strange about it? Magic is always inherently dangerous, and Maker only knows where Ataashi picked that up from. Maybe it shows Astarion some awfulness: Leto with a ghostly collar around his throat, or the ghost of one of their masters in the distance. Or—]
Astarion.
[He hoists himself up on one elbow, wrist flexing just to feel his token strain against his skin. If this is nothing, he'll most certainly address all of Astarion's needless complaints in a moment (oh, poor baby, how he suffers; Leto will certainly tend to his poor wounded ego until he mewls his satisfaction in a puddle of his own come). But now apprehension twists his heart.
The pettiness is still there, though. Evidence in the way he pinches Astarion's thigh, one short sharp little motion to get his attention.]
Tell me what you see.
no subject
Leto.
From Leto to Leto, in fact, given that the reproduced image still held fast between his fingers is a near perfect representation of the man stretched beneath him, save for the fact that the one Astarion's now eyeing (with his hand held thoroughly out of claws' reach) is much, much more scantily clad. More beautiful for it, too; slowly deepening the reddened cast still blooming hot around the tips of pale ears. Across his own cheeks underneath countless stelliform freckles. Mmph. Maker.
There should be laws against looking so relishable.]
I see you. [The former vampire purrs, lips curling the way a cat licks its own whiskers: sweetly, well-sated.
Smug.
But before his darling has the chance to turn a pinch into an admonishing puncture, he cants his head towards his shoulder, flipping the little picture around within his grasp: turning it to face Leto instead, so that the man can see exactly how deliciously ruttish he looks on paper. Ta-da, sweetheart.]
Just you.
[There. See? Nothing to fret about. Nothing to fuss over at all, save for the fact that Astarion's dropped that odd relic just out of range— clearly intending to let his pretty prey languish in curious frustration whilst effectively trapped beneath him; unable to swipe either the paper or its source— and every time Leto might happen to boldly try to lurch or shift his weight, Astarion quickly drops his own to counter it, chuckling wickedly through overlong fangs.]
Ah ah. [Comes his lilting hum.] Ask nicely and I'll let you go.
[Back and forth, Astarion mimicks Leto's words— his candor— almost managing to capture the distinctly sonorous pitch that defines it. Playful, now that he's the one holding all the figurative, smoke-kissed cards. Drinking in the sight of bare muscle as it flexes or squirms, a show just for him.
(Gods, what he wouldn't give for a little rope right about now. Hm.)]
Continue demanding like the brat you are, and I'll keep yours and Ataashi's treasure for myself, happily using it to immortalize just how lovely a sight you are when you're gasping helplessly underfoot. After all, you've never seen what I see before.
....perspective makes a world of difference, my darling.
[There, he leans forward: fitting a gloved index finger to Leto's flush lips— his own hovering behind the barrier of that touch, though it does nothing to deter the husky, low wash of breath across tanned skin, roughened and honeyed all at once. Corruption distilled twice over.]
Latrem me. Perge.
1/2
Not the faint crimson-eared tinge that he gets when Astarion teases in public: the two of them walking arm in arm as Astarion tips his head and whispers the filthiest promises in his ear just to see if he can get Leto to fluster as they peruse Lowtown's wares. That's a pleasing sort of embarrassment. It's one he can volley back without pause, the two of them goading one another until it's all they can do not to rut in some shadowed alleyway. This is— this is something different. This isn't the kind of embarrassment that's about whether others might hear, born from a desire of discretion and a thrill towards skirting near exhibitionism. This is a perfect sort of humiliation, the kind that comes from someone reaching deep into your soul without warning and plucking a string you didn't even know you had, giddy to see the reverberations.
Latrem me. Perge, and his cock swells, thickens, strains at his trousers, pressing up against the plush firmness of Astarion's ass. His hips buck up once, twice, a needy little rut that's less about grinding and more about simply making contact, any kind of contact. More please more, his mouth throbbing from that faint pressure, leather impossibly soft against his lips, the heat of Astarion's skin just a thin layer away. His chest heaves, humid air not nearly enough for his suddenly depleted lungs, his pupils blown out wide as he stares in rapturous arousal at his beloved, and all the while those words repeat in endless, thrilling echo, over and over and over.
He doesn't know what to say. He can speak Trade and Tevene and Qunlat, even a little Elvish, and yet he has no idea how to respond. He blinks up at Astarion, his mouth parted, knowing he looks stupid and utterly unable to help it— latrem me, and high as he is, he doesn't know if Astarion means it in a figurative sense or a literal one, but it doesn't matter. Bark for me, goading and cruel and perfect. Horrific, perhaps, from the outside, but they have always played roughly, with words and knives and teeth. Lust surges in him, dark and hot and feral— a seething sort of feeling, something that makes him bare his teeth in silent challenge, oh no you don't. It's the same feeling that had sprung up when they'd played with collars and leashes: a need to fight and dominate and conquer only deepened by the hint of trauma in his past.]
it's like CW levels of spice
[His voice is a rumble, a low growl that offers two seconds of warning before one of his hands shoots up, grabbing Astarion by whatever scraps of fabric he has left around his torso and yanking him forward with brutal abruptness. It throws him off-balance; it leaves him sprawled over Leto, that perfect ass pushed upwards, and there's just enough time for their eyes to meet before Leto's palm lands with a ringing slap against his left cheek.]
You have been an instigating little brat from the moment we left Kirkwall.
[He seethes it against his ear, his voice low and tight, as his hand raises again. It's three rapidfire slaps this time, his palm landing just on the underside of his ass, and oh, god, he wishes he could see how it bounces, but later, later. Smack, hard against the meat of his ass this time, his fingers curving ever so faintly so that his talons tear through leather, drawing pinpricks of blood as they slice through thin skin. And then it abates back into something lighter again and again, twice, three times, scolding and rhythmic, and there's no one who hears who won't know what it means. Whether or not they know which is being put in his place depends on just how quiet Astarion can be.]
Complaining about the food. The ground. The dirt. The air. Complaining about your wine supply and how much you miss sleeping on a feather bed, and all the while wandering around looking like a damned Dalish. [With a growl he bites sharp at the line of one pale ear, a chastising spark of pain that serves as distraction while he switches hands— one always gripping Astarion's clothes, fingers knotting to keep him close.] When you know I do not like it . . .
And you have been a temptation. A tease. Do you think it is a game, looking at me like you do? Wrapping your lips around a bottle of wine and staring at me across the fire, whispering filth in my ear with the others not a foot away— do you think I have not noticed? Flirtatious little brat, baiting a wolf and thinking it fine sport . . .
[They haven't fucked in days, and right now, Leto can feel every bloody second. It's a surge of lust and frustration and anger, and it comes out in the brutal smack of his hand, outright bouncing Astarion's ass as he spanks him. It doesn't matter how he squeals or wriggles or bellows indignant shock, it simply keeps happening— until all at once Leto's fingers dig in, groping crudely at his flesh, talons digging in with vicious intent.]
Don't move. Not unless you want me to tear these.
[And he will. He absolutely will. Leto tips his head back, his eyes heated and dark as he stares up at his Astarion.]
I know I taught you how to apologize.
Paeniteō. Tell me. Or I will strip you down and put you over my knee, and after a time, we will try again.
I'd actually watch a CW show with gay vampires and elves, js
It's stubbornness on both sides. They haven't fucked in days, and right now, Astarion can feel every bloody second of impact as it comes hammering down against (mercifully) clothed hips— scolding and impulsively aimed, like swatting at a misbehaved whelp: each compounding smack more condemning than whatever words might be spoken overhead, considering there's not a living (or unliving) thing in either Toril or Thedas that doesn't understand what —no, bad— means when it's delivered with a stinging side of soreness. Even Astarion, frequent delinquent that he is, always knows to yank his figurative hand out of the fire before it burns.
Audible yelps intertwined with the sound of scuffing heels promise that he was a little too slow tonight.
Much like the subsequently sudden bite of claws perched tight around the pliant curvature of his own tender backside promises the importance of graceful concession.
And you know, like this, there's a fine-toothed sliver of a moment where the Foundry's acrimonious stench comes to mind. Talon-tips a little like a dagger slipped beneath his chin, demanding attention in the way Leto instinctively knows best (though oh, despite a pitch-eyed fondness for it, Astarion's never been so stupid as to mention that fact out loud). Little pup. Little wolf.
He doesn't curl his fingers this time. No more lowered ceremony, and no feigned surrenders— not when he's likely to end up sporting a host of stripes for it just as before. And yet his hips sting and his eyes have long since watered, left hot-mouthed and disheveled in arms too strong to run from: lithe back still arched, those claws stay there, and like a pack animal with its jaws locked around the neck of a companion, Astarion knows there'll be no truce until Leto's certain his imparted lesson has been thoroughly, demissively learned.]
Mmph.
[Aren't they just a pair. One elf more than ready to make good on his threat; the other arched towards that anger, hooded eyes sluggish as they blink, slow as his wicked lips when they part for the sake of a drunken murmur:]
I'm sorry you couldn't endure it.
I'm sorry I made it too hard for you to focus with all my entirely legitimate complaints, and my need to do things like— drink. Eat. [He tries to sound coltishly apologetic, even as he nuzzles Leto's jaw, occasionally chancing the pinch of his own sharp teeth over inhumanly pretty skin. Hello. See? I'm being good. I'm playing nice.]
You know I can't help myself when you're around.
[Careful, the way he rocks forwards over the stiffest angle of Leto's smothered stretch. Down, more than slipping back and forth, effectively drawing them closer. Careful, so careful, hips as appeasing as his sweetened tone; which carries the same intonation as what he'd use to coax in shoal-sensed prey at the fringe edge of aromatic shadows, as far away from the herd as he and Leto are from camp— though his tone is so much deeper, promising it could only be theirs, this game. He smells of smoke and lilac. His bleeding mostly stopped, iron is the faintest trace left slithering behind the rest; it cedes to drying spice wine, still flush with Arlathan's humid clime.
He's a fox. A corvid. A cat. Leto has the jaw strength, but he has foresight— for if Astarion were easy to outwit, he'd have never survived long enough to see Thedas: he bites until he's cornered and then he's all belly. Soft fur and pretty lashes fluttering darkly under pale curls, longer these months than ever before.]
You're too much for me.
And yet I crave you all the same.
[None of it's a lie.
His hips still sting, but there's no subtlety left in his movement: he tests the limits of his companion's addled focus by rocking back against those claws, gloved touch dropping to pry gently at a faintly smoke-stained lip.]
Ignosco mihi, amatus.....let me have you as I like.
bumpin it up to hbo levels
He could spank him again, obviously (that does have an appeal— high as he is, he swears he can feel the heat of reddened, bruised skin even through the thin fabric of his trousers). Or he could tussle with him a little more (but Maker, he doesn't want to move, not when there's that gorgeous pressure rocking against the line of his prick, slow and rhythmic and sinfully good). Or he could— mph, tip his head back a little more, his eyes focusing on the distant stars as teeth nip gently at the soft skin of his neck. Blindly his hand slides up from his ass, pressing down hard on the small of Astarion's back: first to encourage him into a more blatant arch, and then (fingertips digging in that soft spot just above his tailbone) to turn that rocking into proper grinding.
And when Astarion draws himself up, Leto gives chase— but not before a gloved hand works its way between them, thumb pressing gently at his lip as all the while he still squirms.]
Amatus . . .
[It's soft. Adoring, his emerald eyes wide and wondrous, his tongue darting out to lap slowly at the leather, teasing the pale elf gently with what he's surely about to take anyway. Blindly Leto rests his hands upon Astarion's knees, squeezing just once before he smooths them slowly upwards. Dyed leather is cool against his palms, and he drinks in the feeling of hard muscles tensed beneath them. Every sensation seems important to focus on suddenly; every pulsing push of Astarion's ass against his prick a dizzying jolt that leaves him biting back groans. Like that, yes, don't stop, his heated exhales surely encouragement enough.
There's a part of him (a very large part, in fact, and growing every second) that wants nothing more than to melt beneath Astarion. Yes, take me however you want, submissive and sweet, his legs spread and his moans swallowed by Astarion's hungry lips (for Leto has absolutely forgotten about the camera by now, thanks). Yes, that's all he'd have to say. Yes, please, yes, and for a moment he considers it, but . . .
Leto cocks his head to one side, eyes bright, and chuckles.
There's more fun to be had yet.]
. . . you must think I am the most foolish man in the world, to count that as an apology.
[Quick how his hand strikes: thumbs slicing down in swift mirror movements, slicing through the taut fabric near his thighs— and then again, slicing up towards his hips, his other fingers curving, and Maker, how easy it is to slice his trousers to ribbons. They hang loose and useless, swaths of pale skin peeking out from the falling fabric— but it's his prick that Leto focuses in on. Thick and hard and such a welcome sight, stiff and overheated pressed against his bare stomach.
His mouth waters. Absently he tongues the corner of his mouth, his attention forcibly rerouted— and then his eyes focus back up on Astarion. An insufferable sort of smile curls on his lips, his eyes hooded and dark as he stares fearlessly upwards.]
A mercy, amatus: I'll give you another chance before I force you over my knee.
[His voice is a low drawl, deliberate and wry, as he adds:]
Perge.