INBOX II

[illithidnapped]

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[illithidnapped]

[How the tables have relentlessly turned.

Leto's voice slithering across the line with sudden, anhelous intensity. Echoing within the fastened confines of their coffin, but clearly such a choice for the elf that's barely smothering his own exhales. More than anyone, Astarion can comprehend how little would it take for someone else to hear him moaning out his lover's name when all that separates is tentwork and open air. He'd been the one to welter it all, once. Those lost days when Astarion had been the epitome of that, in fact, barely two brittle rooms away from Fenris' sleeping form, catching himself by the heel of his palm, swearing fealty to silence— to the promise that he wouldn't ruin the only kindness ever shown to him by marking it with sharp teeth. With desire too intense for what's been given (for when is longing anything but a blade in Cazador Szarr's court?) Every groan transmuted to an exhale; every thought of Fenris swallowed down with gulps of air, taking nothing but his longing with him, shaped half like fantasy and half like what he'd gladly offer up without a word if asked. Begged. How deep he'd sink into those thighs. Into him. However he'd like to be taken. (Is he into men? No— likely not with his talk of Isabela. So perhaps not forwardly, then. Not in the way those who are at ease with being bent back, but with a place to warm himself instead. Maybe his cock pinned to a silk-soft thigh, squeezed and riding up against him to completion. Maybe sliding it along his tongue instead, Astarion's head craned demurely down to hide the measure of his shoulders, letting him call him whatever name he likes.) The shiftlessness that welled up at the sight of Fenris as he fought. As he slept. The handsome outline of his face, lit by firelight. The trail of pale azure-silver making his limbs look longer. Long enough that Astarion could stretch out languidly between them— invoking a bracket of tanned skin around his scars, around muscle and sloped curves. His lips to a tipped-back throat, kissing and caressing in equal measure. Whispering antiphons full of filth....

Maybe Astarion—


—wouldn't do that to the man he loves.

Is in love with.

So then: anything.

Anything to keep it locked away, anything to stay near him. Adore him. Protect him with a chasteness that the Chantry would exalt.


And now here they are.

Sharing all the things he used to fight fang and nail to hide.

Quaeso— plays him like a struck chord, reverberating deep under his tensed lungs, his pulseless heart. Nimis longe es— and it's true, he thinks, wincing as his fingers splay across his own chest, the prick he may-or-may-not have been conceptually coaxing suddenly jolting in his grasp, straining at the bit for what it can't have—]