illithidnapped | INBOX II

[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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