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[illithidnapped]

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[illithidnapped]

[Take control—

Oh, it's kammarth to stagnant veins already glazed with the raw heat of stolen blood. Astarion can't begin to compete with the wracking shudder that runs through him as if it were some new, exotic form of monstrous overstimulation in response to that outcry— the predator beneath his skin shedding him like the vestige of lost mortality he's always been behind the mask of sanity with all its peeling paint. Of he sort of pointless chaff that instinctive prey drive doesn't give a damn about. Or if not prey drive, survival, then. That savage hierarchy built atop the pillars of feeding, breeding, and violence that Astarion can only shackle at his best, and cedes to at his worst—

The angle is unforgiving already. It's worse when Astarion jumps forward to hitch up along his toes and knees to fold his prone amatus inwards, those strong legs already jammed into tanned shoulders by the time that pressure makes them dig. It closes the gap between cock and belly— makes it cock and chest in half a second— cock and almost chin if the pearly gleam of interwoven orgasms pattering against tattoo marks counts itself as measure. They link together like vulgar lines of jewels within his shadow. Encroach upon those parted, gasping lips. Encroach upon his hand, tense fingers splayed and bloodless under pressure— trickling through gaps.

And in their shadow, bright green eyes eyes, upturned. Unblinking. A pornographic panoply of light (or lack thereof) reflecting in their surface the sordid show of his unmaking, pumping to a merciless, unending rhythm. The animal that doesn't tire. The vampire above him. In him. In. Out. In. Out. Over. Against. The scent of metal in the air. The tang of sweat and bittersweet come. The taste of it as his hands are drawn away and pushed flat against both tent tarp and cool earth, and a falsely heated tongue slips in behind his teeth. Closer. Deeper. Relentless and blinding— but the shadow doesn't hide a drop of what lies underneath. The scene is there, racing through Leto's body like it owns him.

(That savage hierarchy built atop the pillars of feeding, breeding, and violence that Astarion can only shackle at his best, and cedes to at his worst—

—But they're a bonded pair, he and Leto.)]

Look at me.

[A murmur. Rough and growling in that torporic shudder. Darker than the point of no return. Not like the red eyes that glitter in the closed expanse of Leto's tent. Twin embers waiting— half-lidded under pitch lined lashes.

They don't blink.]

Look at me, amatus.

[Dirt grits beneath pale thumbs and pinned wrists. Slim features— the sharp jut of Astarion's fine nose, his vaulted cheekbones, his mouth, his daggered teeth— nose Leto this way and that to keep him focused. To vie for slivers of attention as he's taken with all the fervence of a lowered bitch gasping between spread legs. Curled toes. Not yet filled enough, but panting just the same.

All it should take is a handful of seconds....

....if Leto, denied for days already, can keep his own eyes open for that long.]

[doggish]

[In. Out. In. Out. Over. Against—

And somewhere along the way, it all blurs into bliss.

Time becomes an illusion, every second and minute and hour turned into nothing more than vague notions. There's only the here and now; there's only this: cool fingers locked around his wrists and the relentlessly steady pump of a heavy prick determined to remind his lithe body where he belongs. It's hypnotic in its rhythm and electrifying in its inexorability, for it never stops. Not when Leto writhes in teetering desperation, fighting against Astarion's grip so that he might touch himself, only to spill over himself untouched a few minutes later. Not when he barks out silent pleas for mercy, tears streaming down his cheeks and his hips shaking as another orgasm wracks through him. Not even when he falters beneath him, tongue lolled out and obscenity worn like a second skin, panting as he spreads his thighs wider and welcomes another searing gush of come spilled into him.

And dreamy-distant as he is, it's details that stand out the most to him. Little bits of sensation registers as they rise above the electrical current that thunders through his veins. Like: how mouth-wateringly fantastic it feels when Astarion finally opts to slow his hips down, going from bouncing Leto in cruel impalement to something languid. His eyes flutter, his mouth dropping open as he moans in silent approval of the way Astarion languidly shuttles his cock in and out, in and out, letting his husband feel every inch of what he's been missing.

Or: the way it feels to come on himself. The way he burns with humiliation the first time it happens— not just for the way come trickles down his cheek and over the backs of his fingers, but for how it makes his eyes roll back as he writhes in overstimulated climax. And then, later, how he melts for it: bitter droplets dripping to the back of his throat as he pants through open lips, pearl glinting against tanned skin like a pornographic echo of the markings he once bore— though his lyrium was never smeared over the bridge of his nose or splashed carelessly along his cheek.

Or even just: the way it feels to come. Orgasms wracking through his body over and over and over— for all his body can do in this youthswept body is greedily beg for more to gorge himself upon. Somewhere in the midst of all that breeding he loses track of how often he comes— six times? Seven? Ten? A chain of them are strung like beads along a taut wire, and how Astarion loves to pluck it, each sadistic thrum earning another silent scream. He's drooling, saliva slick against his chin; he's crying, pain and pleasure so blinding that he's reduced to nothing but rawest instincts. Twice Astarion manages to pry a chained orgasm from him, scarlet eyes glittering in satisfaction as Leto's eyes roll back and his hips buck wildly, only to howl silently in disappointment a few seconds later— and then scream in overstimulation— and howl once more, over and over and over . . .



It's the nosing he rouses to first.

Insistent nudges of sharp features against his own, and without thought Leto responds: fretfully nosing back against each affectionate push as though he might be lost without it. Stay, stay, and he whines silently as he chases after him, greedy for more of that soothing contact.

But Astarion's voice cuts like a knife through all that.

Look at me, amatus, the words stark neon against a haze of fog, blazing and bright and impossible to ignore. He blinks through a haze of tears, his stare uncertain for a long few seconds before— there. Oh, there, emerald eyes glittering with awareness as they lock on. It doesn't matter how much he's spent or how hungry he is (such a greedy thing at this age, dripping in his own come and yet still needily wringing at his mate's prick); it doesn't matter how wrecked the past few rounds have left him. I'm here, a silent response to that growled command.

I'm here and I'm yours, for he knows what comes next. And there's such a difference, isn't there, between a dog being dragged by his scruff through the open door and one who happily walks through it, knowing what's coming next . . .

Take me, as he trembles beneath his mate.]