#wolfewip

"You are… uniquely distracting," he accuses. There's no bite to it, only the subtle uptick at the corner of his mouth. Infuriating, gorgeous man. As if she hasn't thought about their previous meeting every second since it happened three days ago beneath the dimmed light of his office in quiet hours of night. The golden thread of tension between them pulling taunt. The hungry press of his mouth against hers and the reluctant parting of ways before there could be more. The grip on her waist as he'd pulled her back across the threshold, back behind the privacy of a closed door, for just one more taste. A lingering promise. "Oh, is that what I am? A distraction?" The question slips out before she can stop it. Godsdamned mouth always running ahead of her brain. There's a breathlessness to her voice that she hopes will make the words come across as teasing rather than what they really are. What is this? She wants to ask. What are we doing? Because if this is a game to him, she isn't sure she wants to play. He can't just kiss her like he means it and then— Viago does not hesitate, closing the distance between their lips and kissing her with a kind of gentleness she had not expected. It's more than enough to stop every thought inside her head and then is over in the span of a heartbeat. Though he does not go far, leaving her staring down in a cross-eyed daze, entranced at the nearness of his mouth. So very close. So close that when he speaks again she can feel the whisper of movement against her own lips. "There are better things you could put in my mouth than words, I think." The shock of it snaps her eyes up to his as an incredulous laugh slips out, more huffs of air than noise. "Excuse me?" "I can think of at least four off the top of my head," he continues in that casually formal way of his. Unaffected aside from the glint in his eyes that always appears during their tête-à-têtes. A playfulness seemingly reserved just for her.

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Viago goes on fewer contracts as Talon. Fewer still that require strenuous physical exertion. Nevertheless, he maintains the same training regimen. The same strict rotation of strength and endurance and flexibility that he's done daily for more than two decades. It has changed very little over the years; an addition here, a substitution there, all for various reasons.

Most recently he's taken to adding an extra ten minutes dedicated solely to stretching his neck and shoulders—the reason for which is currently curled against his side.

She likes to sleep with her nose pressed up under his jaw, face cradled comfortably against his neck. No matter what position they fall asleep in, this is how they end up. Were he a younger man the stiffness might not settle so readily into his bones. (He tries not to think about this or any of the other many things that would be different were he a younger man.)

Still, the soreness is worth it. And Viago? Viago is a man who knows how to determine worth. Fledglings, art, ingredients, jewels, property—all things he can assign a specific amount of gold to. Time, of course, has a worth as well. Ten minutes per day is a steal for what he receives in return. Each little puff of breath feathers across his skin, exhaled from her slightly-parted lips and worth more than anything else he's ever known.

Priceless is what the saccharine romance novels would call it. He finds that to be an unserious assessment. Nothing is ever truly priceless. Ten minutes of his time is the cost born upfront but there is an endless list of payments due and Viago hopes (so strange a concept, hope; he never used to do that) she'll allow him to balance this ledger for the rest of his life.

A twinge of pain pinches at his neck as she repositions herself against him. Bare leg sliding over his thigh, fingers splaying wide over his chest, the softest sigh of comfort poured into the hollow of his collarbone. He would press a kiss to the crown of her head and whisper reverent thanks for the honor if it wouldn't wake her.

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lawyer!au wip

Paranoid men think often about all the ways in which they might meet their end. Nearing his fortieth year, Viago rarely finds himself caught unawares by thoughts of new methods. A benefit, he supposes, of constantly thinking about one’s own death. All the things that could kill him have long been accounted for, their contingencies calculated, the relevant precautions put in place. There is nothing that he has failed to consider; no weapon, no poison, no person. Except for the one that just waltzed out of his guest rooms. If he has to be specific—and he does; of course he does— it isn’t her that is the unexpected threat. It’s that goddamned skirt she’s wearing. The crass, base animal instinct in him clocks the bare skin of her pretty legs first, dragging his gaze from her ankles up, up, up, fuck— it’s a tiny little thing. Made for the tennis court. So strikingly white even against her pale skin. The wide-pleated hem shifts, fluttering up a little further over her plush thigh as she bends her knee, reaches back to grab her toes, holds the pose for a quick stretch. Viago watches—and he does; of course he does—even if he shouldn’t. How can he not? He lets himself ogle her like a fucking lecher while she’s distracted, tapping away at her phone screen, messy curls gathered up high in an elastic and bouncing as she bobs her head to the music in her headphones. There are at least a dozen reasons why he shouldn’t look. He’s been over them all countless times. Twice just today. It isn’t even noon yet.

It is always the eyes that give her away. Winsome, mesmerizing pools of hazel. An intricate medley of fawn and umber flecked with saffron and amber, sage and emerald, curiousness and willful verity. No matter what form her body takes in each new life, those eyes—her eyes—remain the same. Astarion peers into them now, aching relief curling through his chest. 

“I know you, don’t I?” 

He smiles at the familiarity of her query. It’s always some version of those words, formed like a question on her tongue but so glaringly rhetorical. 

There’s a lean black cat perched on a section of railing at the top of the Cantori Diamond. The lanky proportions betray the fact that it has not quite yet reached adulthood despite having the calm disposition of maturity. Its short fur sleek and glossy, shining subtly in the diffused light. 

A length of tail curled around its paws twitches methodically at the tip as two clear blue eyes track the movement of bodies through the space. 

No one knows where it came from and no one wants to ask. Or rather, no one is brave enough to ask. For the first two weeks after its arrival, the youngest fledglings give the creature a wide berth. It makes them uneasy, they say. Like someone is watching them though its eyes. 

Some young Cantori and de Riva Crows increase their pace when forced to walk past it; others linger a safe distance away and whisper amongst themselves. One of the de Rivas jokes that it looks like their Talon. “Maybe he has crafted a new potion,” some laugh; others chuckle nervously. No one mentions the resemblance again, just in case. Other outlandish suggestions are tossed around during what little free-time they have: it is a demon, a shapeshifting hedge mage, a spy signal.

The morning after one novice almost falls from the rafters attempting to avoid the piercing blue gaze, a collar appears around the cat’s neck.