INBOX II

[illithidnapped]

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[illithidnapped]

[Oh, that look. The rich weight behind those words, firming up his grip in ways he'll never be aware of— stiffening his confined cock in ways he is; there's language and there's language, after all, and one of them tastes better on his tongue. One of them rolls its way back into dark places with all the grace of serpentining coils, constricting round and round (and down and down), and....

It doesn't make him stupid.

No, even as he hounds and harries. Even as he kisses canines-first, and feels the hot preceding rush of beading blood under his talons, his tensed joints almost aching— it makes him sharper. Narrows down his eyes, the angle of his mouth, the pistoning canter of his prick against a shivering-sweet hole. He drinks more of Leto's quaking breath and searing spit than he does blood, because the declarations— like any hunt— taste better when they're closer. Each nip like the snap of jaws mere centimeters away from fleeing (fleeting) movement: their sport can't keep a rapid pace without ending over the crumpled body of exhausted prey, and so as he licks those flush lips clean his fingertips turn delicate, almost. Evoke the grace of painted portraits if not for the ironclad vice they effortlessly fit across Leto's bared throat. His now stilled tail.

Held body-to-body and kept tauter than a strung bow just to feel the breadth of his broad measure settled snugly to its hilt, unmoving aside from a twitch here— a fleeting inhale there— flooded in that merger by a slickness that's more want than oil, Astarion hums.]

Now, what?

[Oh, Leto knows what gets him off (knows what they both, themselves, get off to), and now he's evoked a title he can't turn from, not like this. Not when he's the courtesan courting his client. The sparkling little diamond in its setting, fit where it belongs.

If this is all a game, one overdue by months spent in captivity, then let them play in earnest.]