INBOX II

[illithidnapped]

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[doggish]

[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?

[illithidnapped]

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.]