illithidnapped | INBOX II

[He hadn't expected that. He doesn't know what he expected, in truth, still so caught up in his grief and anger, but it wasn't that— and yet it's perfect. Right in a way Leto hadn't realized he was missing, but the relief (the pleasure) that suffuses through him at Astarion's words feels like sinking into a hot bath.

They're both such violent creatures, for all that this city has temporarily tamed them; they're both such wounded creatures, too used to fending for themselves to not shudder in pleasure at an offered hand. And to think of tearing through Riftwatch's ranks, to making every one of them try and form desperate apologies around their own bloodied throats—

Leto grins.]

Is that what I'd be gagging upon.

[He takes his time in writing it, a pleased flush tinging the tips of his ears.]

Perhaps I wrote it now because the sun is out. Perhaps I want you to have time to imagine all the ways in which you want to fuck me when I finally come home to you.

Mea culpa, though - shall I restrain from telling you just how I would tear them apart? How I would make each of them beg you for forgiveness before I slit their throats or tore their bloody hearts from their chest?

Or would you want something more prolonged, for all the days and weeks and months they put you through?

[ —be still his lifeless, bloodless heart.]

Maker's breath if you won't be the second death of me, relentless little minx who causes me no end of trouble for that perfect end of yours.

[Oh he's so riled. Worked up and elated and high on the euphoria of being loved in language as impure as his own wild nature.]

But you were never made for anything prolonged

well

almost anything, at least.

I just can't imagine you working with delicate finesse, even for a cause like this.

I seem to remember I sliced you with finesse enough. Or did those markings on your chin not count? Though it has been a while . . . perhaps we need another bout soon, just so I can put you in your place. You have gotten too used to being superior, my vampire.

[He cannot get riled, not in public— certainly not the way he wants to be, anyway. But the tavern is dim and the table provides cover; he can at least get away with a bit of filth before he has to stop.]

But if it is finesse you desire . . .

I could pin them to the floor with a blade through their stomachs, letting you watch as they writhe upon their own impalement, ready and waiting for you to drink their fill. Or I could slice into them a hundred times with my gauntlets, and let you watch as they bleed out for you.

Or do you want something more delicate? I suppose I could use those pretty daggers of yours, if you truly wished.

[He can't remember the last time someone had him on his heels like this for the game of dangerous seduction. Every time he tries to deflect, there Leto is pressing right back in again. Just like that fight— just like the dagger pushed against his chin— gifted heartbeat racing while his eyes blew black, so sure his grin would be the only thing that cut.]

I'd be lying if I said I didn't like the way you pierce me.

[He might as well be fanning himself; the breathiness implied. Vain as he is.... he still hungers for the bite of his own fangs, held by hounding hands.]

As for the rest? Depends.

How much would you be wearing in this future scenario of yours?

I could be persuaded to do it shirtless. I fought often like that in Tevinter, you know.

[It's true. It's also not something he associates often, his past and flirtatious behavior— but if anyone will understand mingling the two, it's Astarion. Besides: he rather likes the thought of something like that being used to their mutual benefit.]

Though I suspect if you had your preferences, you'd want me stripped stark and oiled up until I gleamed, hm?

[And thank you, Isabela, for that image long ago.]

[The fact that he's alone hunched over enchanted parchment in the well-lit sanctuary of their room doesn't stop a sudden gasp from slipping out between overlong fangs; old habits.]

sly thing

however did you know?

I have not spent the past two years blind and deaf. I see the way you all but drool when I practice my forms— and how eager you are to touch when I come home sweaty and spent.

if i joined the fighting rings when we return to Baldur's Gate, will you be able to attend a match? or will you be too fixated on pinning me to the mat in the middle of the bout to even let me win?

[>:O!

Excuse you, Leto:]

I don't drool. I yearn.

And don't be ridiculous. I'd never let you join those fighting rings.

you yearned a great deal atop my pillow last night, then

[Only a little. It's more than likely it was one of the pups, drooly little things that they are, but that's neither here nor there. But ah:]

you would not let me?

What can I say? I'm a creature of indulgent excess.

And the only person I want putting their hungry, overaroused, attractively injured body on yours, is me.

Then fight me tonight.

After I come home. Before we settle in for the evening. It's been too long— and you still owe me two scars. I have not forgotten.

We can go to the rooftops. This city may not be as large as Baldur's Gate, but there are a few hidden spots I've discovered; we will not be bothered.

[He's lopsided around overlong canines, sporting a grin that could span eons— aroused and thrilled and playful to the unliving quick.

He hadn't realized until it's written how much he's missed it.

Or how easy it is to set his figurative tail wagging.]

I owe you more than that— and I crave the same from you, if you can manage it with those stunted little claws of yours. You've gotten too used to whetting them on owlbears and adolescents, after all. A challenge of my caliber might prove difficult for a single moon elf on his own.

But that's all detail, not stakes.

What do I get if I win? Aside from the sight of you panting on your back.

[Is your prick hard yet, Leto? Because someone's trying to make it that way.]

A rather large boast from a man who fussed about cheating the first time I beat him. Will you still cry the same when I beat you again, or will you finally concede you like submitting just as much as you do winning?

[But ah . . . the trouble is, he is hard. Not fully, not yet, and he's confident enough he's hidden in enough shadow to not make it obvious— but at the same time, thank the gods his tankard is full right now. Leto takes in a deep breath, trying (and failing utterly) to calm himself before he writes again.]

You said last week you wanted to try predicament bondage. I can be more detailed if you wish, but . . . I will also let you pick what you wish that to mean. Whether it's serving you or merely while you watch, what toys we use with it or how you dress me, what game you wish to play . . . would that suffice as prize?

[And then, because he knows damn well it will:]

What will I get when I win?

[The next bit is written so so carefully (someone hasn't learned not to be a cheat, as it so happens. And between the two of them? Oh, darling, they both know there's only one rogue present):]

Bold words for a man sitting shivering across the room from a hollyphant.

[Warning shot fired—

Or at least it would be if it could save him from the rest of what Leto's just offered. What he's presently envisioning, in fact, and trying so damned hard not to.

(Can someone sprawl in bed to write in an enchanted book without giving themselves away? No— no.

No.

Probably not.)]

If you win, though....

A handjob.

[....bear with him, Leto. He's going somewhere with this.

Namely:]

Up against the wall in a quiet little public place. Your trousers half tugged down around your thighs and your legs spread where you stand pinned by the back of my arm. Blunt pressure squeezed against your spine so that you can only wriggle as I dip my other hand beneath the shadow of your obeisantly raised ass— reaching between the gap left by your open legs and pulled-down clothing to find the hang of you.

And tug you off until you weep for lenience.

Edited (don't eat my words, phone) 2023-12-17 02:45 (UTC)

Oh, damn it . . .

[He mutters it aloud, his ears flushed darkly as he glances away. The hollyphant is not as much of a deterrent as he would like it to be— frankly, as he needs it to be right now. He stares at it a few seconds longer, just in case, but ugh, no, that only makes it worse, for then he's disgusted and has a hard-on.

But ah . . . fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, and he taps his quill against the book a few times before he dares reply.]

You're so determined to make it a punishment?

[He isn't subtle and he doesn't care.]

[Tap tap tap. He loves you, little pup. Really, he does.

Which is why, in the spirit of mischief where it meets Leto's own prior teasing:]

If one enjoys submission....

Is it a punishment, or a reward?

Knowing you?

Both.

Much like this. I am in public, you realize?

[Of course he does.]

Fine. But I may change my answer before the end. I do enjoy submitting to you— but what use is your newfound strength and endurance if we don't put it to the test? I have yet to see you tied to the rutting machine we bought.

Edited 2023-12-17 05:02 (UTC)

[Oh he knows. Which is why he's got his reply already poised for a goading strike. The punchline for his winding setup, to which he's masterfully brought them this far: pen nib perched, grin fixed, wrist— ]

[The paper suddenly looks like this.]

[It is your fault.]

[Hot.

Hot and infuriating all at once, and Leto has to glance away, biting at his lip as he tries not to squirm in his seat. He's hard beneath the table, his cock straining at his laces— and yet though he knows damn well he has to calm down, the fantasy of Astarion in their bed plays out anyway. Sprawled with spread legs, his ass raised in the air and his fingers wrapped around his cock, moaning as he scrawls out word after word—

Mmh. But be realistic. It's a pretty fantasy, but not an accurate one. Not at all. Not when he knows just how this little retort was meant to be taken; not when he knows how spitefully (delightfully) petty his amatus can be. In all likelihood he's grinning right now, Leto thinks: smirking for a job well done, so very pleased with himself for how much trouble he's caused. A vampire in need of correction later on, to be sure, but as for now . . . oh, that can't be allowed to stand.

And yet: what can he reply with? Anything he can think of is only going to make it worse, and he can't, not right now. There's such a long pause, and then, finally:]

you are a damned menace

be ready for me when i return home

keep the pups in the bathroom

i am not submitting to you tonight

[He should have a hollyphant around all the time if this is where it leads.]

Fight me.

[His handwriting's a little shaky. A little unrefined, though the usual embellished scrawlwork's still there. If Leto is grinning, then they're both grinning, and it's not a draw so much as a prelude.

Foreplay with teeth.]

If you win, I'll ride that machine with as much pretty submission as you want.

[How's that for real incentive, love?]

when I win, I want you to be blindfolded too. gagged. utterly helpless for me, so that each time i touch you, you thrash within your bindings, hoping for more and unable to even beg me for it. driven out of your mind until we reach the end of your stamina once and for all.

[A pause. He's riding high on the wings of audacity, thrilled by the fantasy they're both painting and too far gone to care about propriety.]

and if you win tonight, i'll let you shove that potion we bought down my throat while you pin me to that wall.

[No need to elaborate on which one, for he's damn sure Astarion knows. It's been sitting half-forgotten in their trunk for the past few weeks.]

INBOX II

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