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[illithidnapped]

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[illithidnapped]

[He's beside himself. His fingertips driven by impulse as they bite down tighter, anchoring them together at the apex of each thrust. He's here, submerged to the hilt and deeper still: hounding that slight neck through snaps and snarls, inhaling the raw memory of ozone— shifted now to subtle musk and weapon oil. To the fringe scent of sex that clings to narrow places, pried open, pulled near.

Pulled high across his lap where he's knelt across the mattress, fingers splayed over that throat— tail still captive in his other hand, locking Fenris' bouncing hips low over thick pumps of driving movement. Against the sudden shudder of that meager toy, buzzing out pulsating electricity as if it's sprung to life where it's embedded. As if it's snaking in each time Astarion draws out, thrusting on its own designs (and though it's not as if Fenris can glance down, despite the occasional brush of what feels like knuckles against his thighs, his straining prick, his chest— there's nothing there).]

As I....? [A graven rumble before his teeth sink in, plunged sweetly into sinew and soft skin for but a moment. Chased by a lap. The velvety tang of flowing blood. All timed to the pressure of his crown wedged in against shuddering walls, his next cold exhale buried against a houndish nape.] You didn't finish, darling.

[It is a fight, now. Let that wash of crimson— that wicked shiver wedged between their open thighs— christen its beginning. Drunk beyond all sense or reason on each other, there won't ever be enough no matter how many times they trade off tipping their open throats higher for another senseless gulp.

The wet-drenched sounds of slapping counting out each hungry thrust as punctuation in the silence.]

What other sorts of imaginings did you have in mind while you're locked in here playing the prettiest little whore?

Shall I mark you again to commemorate this moment....? Have you roll onto your back and call me daddy when you're aching to be fucked into the floorboards? I could lead you crawling on a gilded chain for lick after lick of foreplay alone, or suspend you like a treasured toy in swaths of magic....

[If Astarion sounds put together, it's only practice.]

....or are you too far gone already to keep directing your good boy?

[doggish]

[The answer is yes.

Yes silently moaned in time with every thigh-trembling swell of a heavy cock thrust deep into him, forcing him to spread open wider than he dreamed possible with every bouncing impalement. Yes, he's too far gone (ghostly fingers riling him with every careless caress, urging his thighs to spread wider, his fretful cock to thicken and swell, drops of precome already wetting the tip as he helplessly bucks his hips to chase after it); yes, he can't possibly think right now (that toy jumping and shivering and grinding so deep within him that he barks out a jagged cry each time, straining mindlessly against an iron grip in vain attempt at seeking relief from pleasure that refuses to abate). A mewling whine bubbles to his lips as Astarion's voice curls against his ear, and yet—]

Not— not hardly . . . [A trembling inhale, a silent whimper vibrating against Astarion's fingers, before he adds with a reckless grin:] . . . daddy.

[Things he'd never be able to say normally, but it helps so much to be mindless. It helps that his eyes roll back in the next second, his hips snapping back to meet the next merciless yank with force of his own. It helps that every sadistic tug of his tail sends electricity pulsing through his veins and white spots flashing in front of his eyes; that there isn't a single second spent where he isn't fighting to speak, to think, to breathe for how good he feels.

Gods. His ears redden, some part of him caught between embarrassment and hesitation— but let this body (lithe in spite of all the months of training, still so damnably young no matter how much muscle he puts on) do the work for him. Let them both pretend he's as young as he never feels, a sweet-mouthed little whore ready to seduce his favorite client. He inhales another ragged breath and shudders to feel those glancing little touches: so faint he might think he was imagining them if it wasn't for the way his cock twitches in fretful, desperate response.]

Is that what you've imagined all these weeks? Fitting your hands around my waist and setting your prick against my belly, thrilling in how much you'll make me take . . . locking a collar around my throat, keeping me captive and suspended so that when the virginal thing finally realizes what it is to court a vampire's lust, it will be far too late to escape . . .?

[Oh, he knows what gets Astarion off (he knows what he, himself, gets off to, for four years is such a long time to discover a whole host of kinks he'd never known were possible). He knows how to thrill his husband— and how to squeeze himself tight in merciless rhythm as he's bounced, milking Astarion's cock in demanding answer to every perfect bounce. Blood drips hot down the line of his shoulder, precious droplets chased after and lapped up by a cool tongue; he tips his head, straining at the wound, making it bleed a little faster.]

You wish for an order? Show me why you said such a thing. [His fingers tighten around the back of Astarion's neck to keep him pressed against that bloody wound, his voice pitching low as he commands rather than begs. Craning his head back, he catches him in a bloody kiss, slow and hungry and molten: lingering until his lungs are aching for air, and only then does he release them both.] Tie me up or put a collar on my throat, but show me just what you fantasized when you pictured me moaning that out.

[A beat, and then, with another deliberate, pulsing squeeze:]

Now.