INBOX II

[illithidnapped]

VOICE | ACTION | TEXT

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[doggish]

[I love you, and it doesn't matter how many times Astarion repeats it, for it won't ever be enough. Every breathless intonation rings in his ears as he commits them to memory; each one suffuses through his body and wends its way into his soul, caressing scars so deep and ancient he'd long since forgotten they were there. I love you, and he echoes it each time, his voice rough and his lips slick as he frantically return every desperate kiss. He grips lithe hips with hands that tremble, yanking Astarion in close (there's no space between them and still he pulls him in close, hips knocking and thighs sliding between one another, determined not to leave a single inch between them).]

I love you. I love you— I love you, perfect thing—

[Because he's the only person in three centuries who's ever given a damn. He's the only one, the only one who's ever looked at Fenris as a person instead of a weapon. Because he whispers those words and hands Fenris a blade aimed straight at his heart, trusting that he won't hurt him— use him— act like a savage beast or every opportunistic tutor that had come before. I love you, and the words feel so good to whisper that it hurts, a clawing desperation in his heart and his throat, insisting with every fierce kiss and hungry touch that it isn't enough— that it'll never be enough— fingers knotting in his shirt just to slip beneath it, tongues tangling only to draw back to whisper it again—

Until there's the barest pause, and with chest heaving, Astarion whimpers that out.]

My poor amatus.

[Crooned out teasingly, though the firm grip he keeps on Astarion's hips ensures he won't fall. Darling thing. Adorable, drunken, besotted thing, and Fenris loves him all the more for how messy he looks as he draws back. Mouth reddened and curls in his eyes, all of him so wonderfully disheveled.

Mine, he thinks, the thought gentle. Mine, not to possess or claim, but to keep close and protect. My heart. My love.]

No one will notice, I promise you, and I will find you some when we emerge. [For he will need water, especially if he doesn't want to throw up by the end of the night. But perhaps not just yet, he thinks, and idly flicks his thumbs over the jut of his hips.]

But I refuse to stop telling you just how much I love you— not until I know you'll remember it even tomorrow morning, when all the rest of tonight seems a blur.

[A playful little nudge of his nose against Astarion's own, knocking against him in a blatant bid for attention. Then, with far more sincerity:]

I love you. And I will tell you tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that . . . so long as you do the same.