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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.
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.