INBOX II

[illithidnapped]

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[doggish]

Since you were so sweet in asking . . .

[His voice low and coy, his eyes hooded as he gazes up at his husband. Excitement sparks in the pit of his stomach, a thrill that he hasn't felt in— oh, months, maybe. Their sex life is never a dull thing, for it's Astarion that's always the joy (and someday, Leto swears, he'll convince him of that: that they could do nothing but the most chaste, rote sex and he would still love it, for he loves being with his mate). But it's been such a long time since they've had this kind of intimacy— and he wants to take advantage of it.

This first, though: one slow, molten kiss that lingers. Because he wants to savor this; because the mattress is soft beneath him and Astarion looks so sweet above him. Their lips move together with languid heat, the swiftly deepening push-pull rhythm only broken when his lungs burn in protest— and then he breaks away just to pant softly against slick lips, licking at them just once.]

Watch me. Let me give you a show.

[The half-command, half-request given as he squirms back, shifting until he can sit up. Making quick work of his clothes (such a rough thing with his body and his belongings both), he only belatedly realizes he ought to be a bit more deliberate about this. Show off for me, little pup, and it's about so much more than just vulgarity, isn't it? He'd learned that years ago, but Astarion was the one to truly refine such a skill, showing him just how good anticipation can make things.

So: slow. Slow as he leans back against the headboard and spreads his legs wide, baring every flushed inch of himself to his husband. Slow as he draws one hand languidly up his lithe frame, fingers rubbing teasingly against the glinting gold studs that gleam against the dark skin of his chest. Slow as he wraps his fingers of his other hand around his already swollen cock, his wrist stroking in lazy echo of the way he plays with his piercings. Slow, he tells himself as he looks into crimson eyes and ignores every adolescent instinct that screams to just take, for the way Astarion looks at him now is worth every second of delay. He's flushed, he knows, his cheeks and ears darker, his chest rising and falling as his breathing grows more labored— oh, it isn't long at all before he's worked himself up, and it's only that mantra that stops his hand from snapping in earnest.]

I thought about what we might do here. How we might occupy ourselves. What would make it worth the price, for I intend to take advantage of nearly every luxury they have here.

[Like the oil that he drips over his fingers, deliberately careless in letting it splatter against the planes of his stomach. Like the delicate little toy he pulls out from beneath one pillow, a slender thing meant to titillate far more than satisfy. One slick slide against his rim just to find his mark, and Leto groans as he pushes it in with one smooth motion— letting Astarion watch as he spreads open so sweetly around that intrusion, his body squeezing greedily around every slick inch, fighting to keep what impales it as he glides it in and out, in and out . . .]

Is this what you meant by showing off?

[A playful purr, no matter that he's biting his lip and moaning softly for every slow thrust.]

Or is this not enough to entice you?

[Oh, it assuredly is, for he can see how hungrily Astarion stares at him. There's a countdown silently ticking, he knows; he has only so long before lust and vampiric instinct both demand he sate himself on his teasing consort. And yet— the first time Astarion approaches (a hand on his thigh, a shifting of his weight, a tongue slipping out to entice) one foot draws up swiftly and plants itself against his chest.]

Aht . . . wait for the show to end, greedy thing.