illithidnapped | INBOX II

INBOX II

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[Fasta vass.

His mouth has gone dry. Everything suddenly comes at a distance now, from the still-snuffling twins (mouthing at his absently scrubbing fingers) to the noises of the inn all around them. His mind wiped blank, all the frustration and humiliation of the day gone in an instant, for none of it matters in face of her.

Stunning as she glows in the moonlight. Jaw-dropping in her breathtaking beauty. So ruinously desirable and utterly fuckable with swaying breasts and plush heat that Leto damned well forgets how to speak in those first few moments. His eyes keep drifting, soaking up every detail (the stiffened peak of her nipples and every sway and bounce of her breasts; the soft plush swell of her slit tucked between soft thighs, a coy tease even now). It's slow at first, his eyes hazy as he drinks her in—

And then darker as her words finally permeate.]

You, [he says, and rises slowly to his feet,] are playing a very dangerous game.

[His voice is low and gravely, his tone as sharply playful as her own. Leto heads for the foot of their bed, not taking his eyes off her for a second as he rummages blindly in his trunk, questing until he finds— ah. Something he swiftly hides in the palm of his hand and then behind his back.

In two swift strides he's closed the distance between them, one hand outstretched— not to grab and grope and take, but to keep her still as he glides swiftly around her. His fingers are searingly hot as they wrap around the front of her throat, his body fitting in tight behind her own; he tugs her close and bites back a shudder for the inevitable grind of his trapped prick against her ass.]

Yes, my prick still aches, little lupa. I cannot tell you how badly I want to bend you over that bed and impale you on my cock until you beg me not to stop, showing you all the ways in which this body can be pleasured . . . worshipping you, perhaps, if you manage to be good. Keeping you taut and trembling for hours on the tip of my tongue, bringing you to orgasm again and again until you've drenched the sheets and still beg me for more . . . yes, I want it.

[He rumbles the words against her ear, his voice dripping with barely smothered desire. Almost imperceptibly, his fingers tighten around her throat— and she feels it, he knows. His hands are hotter than a hearthfire compared to the chill of her skin, and naked as she is, she must be so aware of every point of contact between them. The broadness of his chest and the rough linen of his shirt, the cool press of metallic buckles and rough fabric only emphasizing every single difference between them.]

And I know I won't get it until tomorrow.

But.

[A sharp nip against the shell of her ear before he drags his mouth down, kissing and biting his way down her neck without a care for how rough he's being.]

You painted yourself into a corner. Are you going to pose for me all night? Perch on that bed and spread your legs, touching yourself just to taunt me with what you won't give me . . . I will not say I would mind it. But I suspect you'll grow bored of such a ploy.

[His other hand rises, something small and rectangular with a single button and a gleaming lens held in his palm.]

You wish to be on display? Then let us show you off, lupa.

[A sharp grin as he adds:]

Now close your eyes.

[Click—]

[Lupa.

Gods but she shivers at the sound of that. Loves it at her core the way she loves that hand against her throat and his body caught behind her forming a trifold sense of stacking compression. The anchor that lets the soft clicking of that camera's shutter roam in places that they can't. Places that if she shuts her eyes (and she does as she's told solely for the thrill of it) she can very well picture with ease in absolute reverse: glassy front mirroring the rise and fall of her tender chest, or the faint kiss of avid slick leashed between her inner thigh and the soft bead of her clit where it rests at the very crest of a faintly parted slit....

Her groan is tight where her throat (and her lungs) feel pliantly slack. Mouthwatering in the surest sense, there's no cap on the temptation to perform exactly as he implies, posing and stroking ( —is that still the term?) at herself till dawn with him laid rapt beyond her heels, unable to do anything but pant. Grit his blunted teeth. Whisper again and again what he'd do to her if given half a chance.

....Much like this, she supposes, rocking back into the full breadth of him.

Slipping her right leg to rest more openly for show, baring scalding contours in ways that let them shine....]

....how many of these are you going to take, my restless coniunx?

[Posed like this, he drinks in only tantalizing glimpses of her. Lurid previews told through the slow materialization of each portrait: one that's composed of soft curves pushed up and stiffened peaks jutting in the moonlight, the view broken only by a few stray fingers that coyly caress one nipple. Another as the camera drifts downwards: capturing the moment when she parts her thighs, drinking in shining, slick contours, wetness smeared on her thigh and a sudden stark shock of flushed red and pink coyly peeking out from pale skin.]

Oh, now she wishes to hear my opinion . . .

[Playfully growled as he mouths his way down the line of her neck. The truth is (and don't they both know it) no matter how he strains at his leash, he still relishes it wrapped around his throat, thrilling in how much slack he might gain through audacity alone. Again and again he nips at pale skin, suckling bruises up and down her neck that fade beneath his lips and biting all the harder to renew them.

And he lingers against her bitemarks. Each time he comes back to them, his teeth sinking in deeper, his tongue laving over ancient scars— mine, mine, and he has no hope of permanently replacing them, but there's something so satisfying about pulling back and seeing welling redness and slick saliva smeared over Cazador's claim.]

Until you stop me.

[Click, one bright flash before another portrait drifts out. Another view of her, her nakedness stark as it presses against his clothed frame, her body engulfed by his.]

Until you allow me to do more than just look.

[The hand wrapped around her throat slips down. Calloused fingertips caress their way slowly along the centerline of her torso, drinking in soft contours and newly mapped skin. He takes his time with it, fingers gliding between her breasts, certain not to touch what he hasn't been allowed— and yet there's so much of her that isn't off-limits, isn't there? He traces idle patterns against the coolness of her skin, teasing beneath the hollow of her ribs, the curve of her hips— not taking, not stealing, but simply appreciating her in all her facets. Pretty thing. Gorgeous thing. Untouchable, unknowable thing, hungry to be worshiped and longed for . . . his hand is so broad as he cups her hip, thumbing at the jutting line of her hip. Little kitten licks against the side of her throat as he feels the subtle swell of her belly and slides his palm down just beneath it, right above where her subtle mound swells—

And presses.]

Until you let my fingers slip between those thighs and finger you until you're shaking with unslaked hunger . . .

[Another doting kiss. Another subtle push with the heel of his palm as his cock rolls against her ass, grinding just once—

Before he steps back.]

But until then . . . why don't you pose for me, hm? Show me what I am missing with all those new curves of yours.

Edited (html) 2024-09-20 23:58 (UTC)

[What a mate he is, nosing at her with all the churlish insistence of his age: testing boundaries and borders and hoping he might find its iron gate nothing more than painted fenceposts— flimsy enough to expertly slip through. Not meanly. Not brutishly, or with no concern for the reason they'd been staked down in the first place, but rather draped with the sincerity of wolfish hunger. What the pups do with tins of treats wherein they stretch their paws high against shut lids and gently, gently press to see if it isn't well-secured, and appealing to the laws of physics that grander outside forces do the rest. Not a scrap of wickedness in sight, save for the growling of their bellies. Tightly locked muscle and fixated stares. All harmless.

Just hungry.

And Astarion can't blame anyone for that.

Deliberate in her own rise towards his fingers, unable to resist the pleasant pull of friction they provide. Fencing in her focus by pure, compulsive proxy, it funnels down like rain into the channels of her contours— the places where his fingerprints stick, run flush, run tight— where supple skin meets velvet slickness, and even lifelessness goes flush with fervent warmth. Its wordless confessions of interest speaking loud within each picture; the snap-click of that captive camera working like a maddened archivist-et-translator, pouring paper after slip of paper out onto the floor.

She groans.

She sighs.

Tilts her head towards him as her body cranes closer to his prick—

And then he's gone. Drawn back, away from the bliss of their entanglement, and her own hand swipes out low towards that camera in response.]

Don't you dare act coy after that, you filthy little tease— [drags from her a sharp-rimmed scoff, all teeth, that like the rest of her moves to hunt him down: crowding his larger form with her own diminutive silhouette against a nearby wall, so that he's nowhere left to run if he doesn't chance a swift withdrawal before then.]

[Oh, there's not a chance of him darting away, not when she's so unashamedly naked and eager to tease— Leto laughs as he willingly surrenders both the camera and his autonomy, trading both for the chance to sling his arms around her waist and drag her in close. Before she can protest, one strong thigh fits between her own, lean muscle pressing up just as insistently as it had in the alleyway. Crass, perhaps, to use the same move twice— but judging by the heated slick that gathers against his leg, Leto suspects Astarion won't mind.

Fingers splay against her lower back as his eyes flit down, fixating unashamedly on the sudden pillowing swell of her breasts against his chest. He's salivating, he realizes without an iota of surprise, and tips his head, his tongue flicking out to lick at his lips just once.]

I'm the tease?

[Gods, he can feel every place their bodies connect: stiff peaks straining against his shirt (his fingers ache to touch, to grope and fondle and pinch until she cries out in needy desire) and her lithe form aligned with his own. He pulls gently at her hips, guiding her into grinding against his thigh; his own hips roll at the same time, his cock straining and stiff as he ruts against her hip, every slow rock ravenous punctuation to what he's saying.]

Little vampire, remind me: who among us demanded we wait until tomorrow to rut, hm?

[He ducks his head, fledgling teeth sharp as he nips just beneath her jawline and noses at cool skin.]

You hold my leash between your fingers and collar me, put a muzzle on me, tell me to stay and be good— and now you claim I'm the one who withholds? Posturing as if I would not get to my knees in an instant and worship you if only you were to give me permission . . . my hypocritical amatus, you cannot have it both ways.

[And oh, he can't resist: his hands slide back, fingers smoothing over the swell of her ass in open appreciation— and then dig in eagerly, squeezing and groping soft, supple muscle, eager to take as much as he can before he's inevitably scolded away. He spreads her open, his cock twitching as he imagines the vulgar sight he cannot appreciate: Astarion with her back arched and all of her perfectly on display, spread open and slick and vulgar in all the ways he can't fully savor just yet.]

So pick, pretty thing.

[His voice low and rumbling, his breath so hot as he murmurs in her ear.]

Do you want me panting at your heels or on my knees? For I am at your command.

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INBOX II

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