illithidnapped | INBOX II

I'm still cross with you, though.

No you aren't. Not when you're being such a good boy for me, showing me how much you're affected instead of feigning indifference . . . did you already come? Or are you thinking of how I'll have you tonight, sitting in my lap and rocking back against two of my fingers while I tell you about what a clever thing you are— so good for me, even when you're deliberately acting the brat.

FENRIS

I SWEAR TO FUCKING SELUNE RIGHT NOW I W

where even ARE you right now??????????? ITS THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY why arent you working with me

guarding me

whaTEVER

WHY ARENT YOU HERE

[Is it mean he's laughing? A little, but not much.]

Because you're my student, little love, and I enjoy teaching you patience.

Because you become all the more sluttish when you're desperate for me.

[Because Lord Ancunín assigned him to patrol the grounds today, a task which requires very little focus and takes up a great deal of time, given how fucking large the estate is.]

Now answer my question.

Then you're not a very good teacher because I keep failing

[UGHhhh. Ugh he's going to crash out. He's going to body slam his own bed until he's too concussed to think about the feeling of a tight throat squeezing hot over his breadth, or strong fingers probing where he— ]

Of course I didn't come yet, you ass. I might be hungry for the sound you make when you're fighting the urge to swallow against the contours of my cock, but I'm not so fast as to last all of one minute.

[Do NOT bring up that first exchange in the backrooms or he'll throw rocks at you from his window. Big ones. Don't even bother asking where he'd get them from, he'll find a godsdamned way.]

Of course you aren't.

Not without fainting, anyway.

And while the idea of you flat on your back with your cock out and your thighs spread is thrilling, I'm enjoying this more.

And given you haven't tried to find me just yet, I think my lessons are paying off.

Edited 2026-03-21 05:36 (UTC)

Now tell me how you're touching yourself. Are you still in front of the mirror?

[Hell's teeth. He's going to travel back in time before that ever happened and fucking kill himself.

Except no. No, he really won't, because as much as he bares his teeth at the reminder when it comes, it still leaves his heart tucked hot under his tongue— hammering away and fierce. The sort of thing he'll get off to till the day he dies.

If he doesn't die of embarrassment first.]

Guess where I am and I'll tell you how I'm touching myself.

....and also how I'm not.

[One of these days he's going to have to tell Astarion just how much he loves it when the other man sets up games like these. Filthy and inventive and crude, and it sets his blood alight each and every time.]

I doubt your bed, for that's too mundane for a game like this.

I admit: I like the thought of you arched up against your window, splayed out vulgarly, praying I'll somehow see you with your hand— ah, but you only asked for where, not what.

Hot or cold, that answer?

[And Astarion, proud to his pampered marrow, will do his best not to admit he already knows.

(All bets are off as to whether or not he can also play off how much it's his utter favorite, too.) Shhhh. Secret.]

Freezing, twice over.

[Is that too large a hint, proximity through descriptors? No. Can't be. Not when people use burning half the time, he's decided.]

But I did consider the window at first. Wouldn't be the first time the servants saw me like that, after all.

The servants aside from you, that is.

You could convince me to go back to it, though. Trade me something good for a pretty view from the garden terrace while you're stuck out there with hunger coiling taut between your thighs....

Edited 2026-03-22 05:30 (UTC)

[Freezing . . . well, not the damned freezer, Fenris thinks with just a smidgen of doubt. It's not that he's particularly bad at guessing games, but on the other hand, it's getting just a little hard to think. Though at least he has leave to duck behind a nearby statue without worrying he's missing a show.]

Perched atop your mirror laid flat on the floor. Stripped of all your pretty silks so you're naked, your lean thighs spread wide and your back arched to its limit, just so you can see how pretty that hole of yours looks as you scissor it open wide— pretending all the while that's it my fingers you're fucking yourself on.

Or perhaps: that I'm perched atop the bed, watching you at work. Seeing what a slut you can be if only you're properly motivated . . . do you like that thought better? If I'm dressed in my uniform, oiling my gun, waiting to see if you've earned the right to take it in your mouth and show me just how you plan on sucking my cock . . .

Hot or cold?

Edited 2026-03-23 01:21 (UTC)

[Mmph. The prickle of sensation up his neck that makes his small hairs stand on end smells like weapon oil, to his mind. Feels like calloused knuckles, and the overbearing pressure of thick muscle weighted heavy where it finds him. The faint traces of lyrium and gunpowder in the air. The sour tang of sweat.

The darkness that writhes under his skin to think about risking everything for a little rug burn and a mouth full of hunger....]

Gods damn it, Fenris.

You

If you had a mind to put yourself in my bed, you'd find that I'm not in it. Nor seated over my torn-down mirror, conjuring a picture laced with false cocks and lurid angles that your mind will never manage to sear away regardless of how much whiskey you drink down. No more focus. No more self-restraint. A hard prick nestled hot against your leg as you try to remind yourself that you have a job to do, as the meetings you're always forced to attend drone on and on....trying to ignore my father's speaking without forgetting that you're meant to listen, not to fuck his son in every closet and boudoir on the estate like an untrained sighthound finally let off its leash.

Or better yet, get fucked by him. Bridled like the pretty thing you are. Ridden so many times you're dragged to tears when you can't take it anymore. I know the way you like it. How you hold your breath when you're right on the edge of letting go.

But you're right about one thing, darling: I'm motivated.

And I want to see how hard I can drive you before you start nosing at my palm for treats. For all those answers you're still wanting.

[Please, that's his first thought. Please please please, and his thumbs flicker for a moment as he fights off the urge to drop all pretense of arrogance and beg like the needy bitch his master so arrogantly claims he is. He is distracted. He is overwhelmed. His prick aches where it's trapped against his thigh, pinned in place (and Maker help him if he tries to adjust, for the moment he touches himself, he knows, he's lost). His heart is thundering in his throat, his attention so thoroughly rerouted that an army could trample by and he'd barely pay them mind.

Give in. Tell me. I want to know, I want to see, please, please, please . . .

He won't say such a thing, of course, and not just because it would spoil the game. But there's still that flicker of hesitation before he swallows thickly and types out instead:]

That isn't a hint.

[Fasta vass, he thinks, tipping his head back to lean sweat-soaked skin against cold stone. A welcome relief from the heat steadily rising within him— gods, it always ends like this, doesn't it? What starts as toothless teasing becomes something so lust-fueled it's all he can do not to shirk his duties and run off to chase after Astarion like the unfixed slut his amatus so rightly cites him as . . . gods, even now, it's all he can do not to palm at himself like a teenager.]

I can think of any number of places that might be cold that you would think to be filthy in, but unless you wish to hear a litany of freezers and fountains I might find you rutting in . . . give me another hint.

[And he'll just pretend that neither of them can hear the unsubtle pleading woven in there. Please, please, as he squeezes his thighs together and fights to think of anything save Astarion, arrogant and domineering and mean. Astarion as he was three nights ago, lit up by his cell phone screen as he'd languidly fucked Fenris' mouth with two fingers and taken picture after picture with the other . . .]

And if you can actually manage to bring me to tears through overstimulation, brat, I'll do anything you please. Pant and mewl and beg you for more, wear whatever you'd like, spreading myself open while you muse on what you want to try next . . . you'd have earned it by then.

But you haven't yet. And considering only one of us has ever fainted during sex . . . do you really think you can even last that long, little one?

Maybe I'll pass out before either of us get anywhere. [Is what you get for picking on him when he's holding all the cards now, sweet pup. Something something honey and vinegar, however the saying Talindra always favors goes.] It wouldn't be he first time I've been caught somewhere I shouldn't be with my cock out. At this rate my father's going to run out of punishments.

You should try asking nicely.

[There's a series of those damned dot-dot-dots again. Does Fenris know that Astarion can see him typing? Stop-start, stop-start, and every sentence he begins sounds wrong. You would not pass out during such a game, don't lie to me, but that sounds too petulant: a sore loser refusing to concede the power's shifted balance. I'm not asking a brat nicely is better, but not by much.

Just tell me where you are so I can throw you down, sink my cock between your thighs and fuck you until you claw at my back so desperately you draw blood is, mm, better. More honest. But less fun, and he does so enjoy his little love's inclination to play.]

As if you'd give up the game so early.

[An opponent on the back foot, but not petulantly sullen: an acceptable compromise.]

Please, little ward of mine that thinks himself so clever. Please give me a hint so that I might better imagine you speared and spread open atop a thick toy, bucking and writhing as you try and fail to fit it all between those slender hips of yours. Please offer me something more substantial, so I can remind you of your fantasy tonight when I have you pinned facedown and drooling into your mattress for how much you want me. And need me. And will do almost anything to get me to keep going if I dare to pause, for you are such an impatient thing sometimes.

[Pot, kettle— it's a winning day for Talindra and her sayings.]

[Gods, Astarion will never tell him. It's so cute to see those ellipses stop and start, stop and start—

And then significantly less cute once those words bring a wild shade of red to his pale skin, lending a fainter swell to wetted lips....]

I've always been impatient.

For the sight of you on your aching knees. For the way you like to rail against anything and anyone who tries to lord over you, to the point that you— worked up into a fervor— always wind up railing me until we both see stars.

I know you don't intend to properly beg, not even when we're playing, but do you really think I want you out there pacing the halls instead of here with me?

[Fenris is right: there's just too little resolve in Astarion left after a paragraph like that.]

Promise me you'll be sweet when you find me. I want to see what you look like with my length laid out across an obedient tongue— one that won't just take its fill without being a well-behaved bodyguard first: waiting for his master's permission just to taste, let alone touch. Take.

[Fuck. Fuck, and it's testament to a year together that a wave of heavy heat crashes through his body and pulses through his veins each and every time his leash is snapped taut. There's something so fucking hot about it, and Maker help him, for even a year later he doesn't know why he allows it, except maybe there's something comforting about falling into line.

Or maybe he just likes Astarion a little mean.]

I'll last longer than you do, sweetheart.

[Growling. Posturing. It's the steady stare that will come when he get to his knees and lets his tongue loll out, panting hot around the swell of Astarion's cock. It's the promise that he isn't beaten, not thoroughly. That this obedience is given, not just taken. That it's a dog's right to decide where and when he's a good boy, no matter that his master thinks it's all at his command alone.]

I'll be as good as you demand of me, waiting for you to tell me to swallow down my treat.

I promise.

Now where are you?

Come back to your room. [Urges the brandy-laced instigator underneath his bodyguard's sheets, still stiff and with no mind to finish before the handle turns. Before he sets his eyes on a pair of startling green ones set sharp beneath stern shadows. A handsome face that'll look all the more enticing nestled deep between his thighs, flush to the hilt and stretched wide— barely capable of breathing— yet more than capable of swallowing down more. Such a show-off when he's of a mind to be, and it's when they're both together that that inclination holds most true: addicted to the taste of one another, to the feeling of submersion that goes well beyond submissiveness or mere control.

He's going to miss dinner.

He's going to stay here till morning.]

INBOX II

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THE EMBODIMENT FENRIS' FLUSTERED ICON BUT WITH ASTARION INSTEAD:

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