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[doggish]

Comments

[illithidnapped]

Watch. It. Thin ice, knife eared amatus mine.

Mine has embellishment. And come.

[doggish]

did you just actually call me a knife ear?

[They'll get back to the matter of dicks in a minute.]

[illithidnapped]

What? I'm allowed.

Don't tell me you're precious about it.

[doggish]

as precious as you are truly audacious

[In other words: no, not at all.]

and you are allowed on the slight of technicalities— though I notice you call the man you love— your future husband, no less— a slur over a matter of drawn cocks

Aren't you meant to be the older, more mature one?

[illithidnapped]

[There's a moment when that pen sits against the page, not disputing any facet of this argument for the longest time before, simply:]

I'm reclaiming it.

[doggish]

Justify it well enough, my magistrate, and perhaps I’ll approve it.

[illithidnapped]

You are such a thorn in my side I hope you realize.

But fine.

Knives are deadly after all. My own personal weapon of choice for their grace and beauty, let alone their ability to puncture even the most stalwart of defenses with a perfectly timed thrust. Thus with our delicate features and our murderously divine natures, nothing could be more fitting an evocation for creatures such as ourselves.







Also, you deserved it for daring to criticize something I poured my heart and soul into.

[>:C]

[doggish]

[Just beneath that first sentence, cheekily scrawled in the smallest font:]

You love me and would tear the world apart to keep me from the slightest inconvenience.

[But then:]

Fine. I will allow it, if only because you made a spirited case. But you spoiled it at the end, lawyer mine: you did not spend more than ten seconds on that, and I aim to praise you for the many things you do that deserve favorable judgement on, not a half-assed rendition of my prick.

Though I notice, with all your whining, you never praised mine either. Do you intend to continue to demand that which you haven't given yourself?

[illithidnapped]

1: yes.

2: can a creature not invest its very being into a work of art in ten seconds?

3: also yes. Besides. I praise you endlessly already, a great portion of it warranted, no less.

[doggish]

A creature can. You, however, I doubt very much did.

What portion of it is unwarranted? Choose your next answer carefully.

[illithidnapped]

[!

RUDE!!]

2/2

[illithidnapped]

[. . . .]

When you're ill and on death's door and your nose turns redder than beetroot and your eyes won't open and I tell you that you're the most alluring thing I've ever seen in all my years, and how I'd take you right then and there if I didn't think it'd finish doing the work your sickness started?






Not that part.


Just the part that comes after, when I say no sweetheart I love you sleeping in my clothes no matter how unwell you are. It's so cute of you to wipe your nose with my sleeve whilst snoring.

[doggish]

[He does bark out a laugh, if only because it's a good retort.]

I was going to offer to suck you off as apology. No longer.





And if your expensive clothes are indistinguishable from your inexpensive ones, the fault does not lie with me. Perhaps you should invest in high fashion that isn't indistinguishable from your undershirts.

[illithidnapped]

Just the regular sort instead then?

[:)]

My love, the heart wants what it wants, and what it wants is to look good at the side of a striking elf who just so happens to possess an interest in all things wild, untamed, and inordinately messy.

I take my losses. That doesn't mean I can't still grieve the noble sacrifice my wardrobe makes to that noble cause from time to time.

[doggish]

Putting two "nobles" in that sentence does not take away from the fact all the mucus came out in the wash. It was perfectly fine in the end. And you would look good regardless of what you wore, whether it was wildly overpriced or scraps and rags.

That is an example of praise. Not "no, your cock-drawing skills are good, truly".

And I still am not awarding you as winner. At best, it's a tie.

[illithidnapped]

And what about the pups you've brought into our home? What about the gnawed sleeves and mangled slacks? the buttons I've watched vanish only to reappear later in the most haunting means imaginable— up from the void?

[doggish]

They've stopped, for the most part, since I explained to them it upset you.

[And, thank the gods, they're growing out of the teething stage. Fortunato has the idea down, but Montressor . . . well, she tries.]

And I replaced those buttons.

If it truly distresses you, I'll bring them to a tailor. It cannot be that hard to mend.

[illithidnapped]

I don't want you to bring them to a tailor.

[doggish]

Then what do you want, my sore loser of an amatus?

[illithidnapped]

[>:OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO]

I am NOT

[Ahem.]

I am not a sore loser. I only make the wholly valid argument that perhaps, little pup, that if I am to suffer I would at least like a single reason left to me to whine.

[doggish]

Whine about losing a game that I concocted on a whim as an alternative to asking you another hypothetical, in which you drew my cock.

Very well. Whine away.

[A pause, and then:]

Is it losing that bothers you, or the fact I teased you over it? You must know I meant nothing by it.

[illithidnapped]

Do you remember the last time you gave the girls treats?

And how when Ataashi buried hers, montressor dig them up hours later and nearly choked trying to fit wolf-sized biscuits down her tiny little gullet, which thus necessitated a cycle of taking away anything uneaten— to which all three of them bayed their outraged protest?

[doggish]

Vividly. It was a grim portent of dieting days yet to come when it comes to Montressor.

[Ataashi's furious lectures had lasted for days, and Leto got an earful whenever she realized he could properly understand.]

But I fail to see the relevancy.

[illithidnapped]

Think of me as the wolf.

Intent, solutions. All well and good, but we're competitive beasts at heart, and you've just trounced me thrice.

[doggish]

[It actually takes him a moment to understand where the thrice came from. And it's not that he isn't competitive; it's not that he doesn't understand what it is to get too invested in petty competitions. But still, Leto frowns faintly down at his book.]

Fair enough, and I grant you your point. Though of all things we have competed on, I suspect this matters the least by a significant percentage.

[Hm.]

Everything aside, Astarion, tell me truly: are you actually bothered— or simply enjoying the metaphoric baying?

[Because tone is hard over text— and while some part of him regrets potentially ruining a silly little spat with a serious inquiry, now he wants to know. This isn't the first time this kind of fuss has come up.]