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[They've seen enough of each other in the last year to make even sidelong glances into mundane things. Funny then that there's never anything mundane about it: he sees the break in the gathering for what it is— a nesting perch for those disinclined to make nice with anyone they haven't met, or at the very least a shelter from the disarraying din, and sure enough, between gaps in silhouetted shoulders, Astarion spots a most familiar face.
And watches it, just for a breath or two (still such a luxury, that. Breathing,) as minutes pass. An addiction, maybe. Fixated and fixed. Gazing at those downturned ears eager to pin themselves flat for every passing conversation; a slip of cast-off lantern light poured out from a nearby sconce just to lay itself across the sturdy bridge of Leto's nose— Leto, soft as warmed sugar even in his thoughts, for the name now finds itself synonymous with that first night in Rialto, and the image of an elf lost to sleep in rumpled covers. He'd looked nearly as beautiful then as he does now, fierce and long and lean and sharp round darkened eyes in shadow, catching light in all the right places. As if it were meant to be there, mete out by an artist's hand.
And that armor....
Dark. Threatening. Black inlay tucked beneath bright lyrium contours and a slender, stubbornly raised head that only glowers at each passerby who dares to meet his eyes. Questioning their ability to think of him as either hand or help. In a momentary pause at one point, one thin measure of white hair drops out of place to curl against the center of Leto's forehead, and all the pale elf watching him can manage thinking is that he'd quite literally kill to press against him in its place.
Ergo he'd be a liar to claim it didn't do something to the angle of his spine on approach. That the balls of his feet aren't twisting a little more towards his center line, compensating for a careful gap held there between his strides. Slack agility in his hips and a dangerous amount of rigidity in his spine that borders on involuntary (something to do with bloodflow, and the fainter hint of color in his ears). Nothing that shows in his inevitable smile— all glittering fangs by the end of it.]
Do I really? [Astarion asks with the sort of breathlessness usually reserved for the raw gasps between suckling groans, deliberately angling his teasing towards the words hello and convincing, rather than the final apt correction.
His palm meets the cool plaster wall beside Leto's righthand torso, barely an inch or two below the ribline, and right where night-colored armor joints leash themselves to leather. It shortens the distance between them, and Astarion lingers in the sweeter scent of ozone, lost to it for just one flicker of a beat.]
And watches it, just for a breath or two (still such a luxury, that. Breathing,) as minutes pass. An addiction, maybe. Fixated and fixed. Gazing at those downturned ears eager to pin themselves flat for every passing conversation; a slip of cast-off lantern light poured out from a nearby sconce just to lay itself across the sturdy bridge of Leto's nose— Leto, soft as warmed sugar even in his thoughts, for the name now finds itself synonymous with that first night in Rialto, and the image of an elf lost to sleep in rumpled covers. He'd looked nearly as beautiful then as he does now, fierce and long and lean and sharp round darkened eyes in shadow, catching light in all the right places. As if it were meant to be there, mete out by an artist's hand.
And that armor....
Dark. Threatening. Black inlay tucked beneath bright lyrium contours and a slender, stubbornly raised head that only glowers at each passerby who dares to meet his eyes. Questioning their ability to think of him as either hand or help. In a momentary pause at one point, one thin measure of white hair drops out of place to curl against the center of Leto's forehead, and all the pale elf watching him can manage thinking is that he'd quite literally kill to press against him in its place.
Ergo he'd be a liar to claim it didn't do something to the angle of his spine on approach. That the balls of his feet aren't twisting a little more towards his center line, compensating for a careful gap held there between his strides. Slack agility in his hips and a dangerous amount of rigidity in his spine that borders on involuntary (something to do with bloodflow, and the fainter hint of color in his ears). Nothing that shows in his inevitable smile— all glittering fangs by the end of it.]
Do I really? [Astarion asks with the sort of breathlessness usually reserved for the raw gasps between suckling groans, deliberately angling his teasing towards the words hello and convincing, rather than the final apt correction.
His palm meets the cool plaster wall beside Leto's righthand torso, barely an inch or two below the ribline, and right where night-colored armor joints leash themselves to leather. It shortens the distance between them, and Astarion lingers in the sweeter scent of ozone, lost to it for just one flicker of a beat.]
[It's just a flicker of a beat, but it's all the time Leto needs.
In a breathless moment his hand darts out, metal claws catching Astarion by one barely-clothed hip and spinning him around, pushing him flat against the wall as Leto crowds forward. It's a swift reversal, no lyrium tricks or ghostly coyness: just fast reflexes and a ravenous desire to show off.]
Oh, yes.
[He takes a small step forward and ducks his head down, peering up at Astarion through dark lashes. They're already half-hidden in the shadows like this, but if anyone happens to glance them by, all they'll see are two conferring elves whispering to one another.
This is for them, this little flirtation, and Leto refuses to share.]
Yes, [he says again, his voice darker this time. His right hand— the one facing away from the party— slips between them, the tips of his claws pressing against bare skin. With slow deliberation they glide their way down, pressing just hard enough to be felt, as Leto keeps his eyes locked on Astarion, searching for a hint of a flush.]
And you know it. False modesty doesn't suit you, kadan . . . though I cannot say the same for this outfit.
[His head tips, his breath hot as it ghosts against his jaw. This close, he can hear the catch of Astarion's breath, see the way his pupils dilate . . . he even imagines he can hear the thundering of his heart (or is that his own?).]
Am I meant to let you out of my sight tonight? Only the thought of you mingling among those drunken fools is intolerable. Covered in blood, on the other hand . . . that I will thrill to see soon.
[Gods, he looks so good like this: lit up not just by candles and lanterns, but by Leto's own lyrium, too. Azure light gives pale skin an almost ethereal glow, adding softness to the sharp lines of his face. Around them, the party ebbs and flows, voices rising and falling and the faint sound of music in the distance, and none of it matters. Even the other members of Rift Watch (who have surely noted their absence by now) don't matter, not at all. There's a faint thought for the mission, but ah . . . later. Later.]
You should have told me you were going to dress like this. We could have skipped the party entirely.
In a breathless moment his hand darts out, metal claws catching Astarion by one barely-clothed hip and spinning him around, pushing him flat against the wall as Leto crowds forward. It's a swift reversal, no lyrium tricks or ghostly coyness: just fast reflexes and a ravenous desire to show off.]
Oh, yes.
[He takes a small step forward and ducks his head down, peering up at Astarion through dark lashes. They're already half-hidden in the shadows like this, but if anyone happens to glance them by, all they'll see are two conferring elves whispering to one another.
This is for them, this little flirtation, and Leto refuses to share.]
Yes, [he says again, his voice darker this time. His right hand— the one facing away from the party— slips between them, the tips of his claws pressing against bare skin. With slow deliberation they glide their way down, pressing just hard enough to be felt, as Leto keeps his eyes locked on Astarion, searching for a hint of a flush.]
And you know it. False modesty doesn't suit you, kadan . . . though I cannot say the same for this outfit.
[His head tips, his breath hot as it ghosts against his jaw. This close, he can hear the catch of Astarion's breath, see the way his pupils dilate . . . he even imagines he can hear the thundering of his heart (or is that his own?).]
Am I meant to let you out of my sight tonight? Only the thought of you mingling among those drunken fools is intolerable. Covered in blood, on the other hand . . . that I will thrill to see soon.
[Gods, he looks so good like this: lit up not just by candles and lanterns, but by Leto's own lyrium, too. Azure light gives pale skin an almost ethereal glow, adding softness to the sharp lines of his face. Around them, the party ebbs and flows, voices rising and falling and the faint sound of music in the distance, and none of it matters. Even the other members of Rift Watch (who have surely noted their absence by now) don't matter, not at all. There's a faint thought for the mission, but ah . . . later. Later.]
You should have told me you were going to dress like this. We could have skipped the party entirely.
Edited 2025-05-26 00:33 (UTC)
[Deft doesn't begin to cover it. Deft, by definition, would only covet the swiftness Leto employs in his reversal— for Astarion's spent full lifetimes in the company of creatures that defy swiftness as any mortal knows it.
They all look clumsy, caught in the crosshairs of eclipsed hindsight.
Breathless, half-hard hindsight.]
Is that what the Crows expect from its flock now? Show up and fuck like rabbits in the nearest corridor closet? [Is a sly joke rooted in the very image that it paints when Astarion's eyes survey the lay of the wing itself from over armored shoulders (who's even bothering to notice them at all, in fact), around the shape of one dark ear tipped low across the peripheral borders of his vision. It is his heart that's thundering, rabbiting on scurried legs between the prickling flush blossoming beneath Leto's palpable voice and the narrow shiver that runs high along his inner thighs, soon flexed when one raised leg rocks itself against the fighter's own in full discretion— careful not to leave the sanctity of dark shadows. Obscured sightlines.
They're just a pair of colleagues having a chat, after all. And in that chat, slim fingers thread themselves through buckles and thin armor as a snake winds itself through grass, hunting for its next meal. Starvation all that drives it.]
My training must've been less thorough than yours.
....And far less interesting.
[They have a duty to perform. Blood and violence is, as Leto aptly mentioned, exactly why they're here when (or if) opportunity abides. The Venatori are clever when they wish to be. The Crows are territorial, self-serving on the best of days. The people here—
His touch snags. The pitch black gloves he wears in public aren't fond of the little gaps he's forcing them to tread, or the nimbleness the act demands; that second skin able to do the work, but it snags when it's caught against harsh metal joints, pulling back on all momentum.
And caged frustration's all it takes.
That, and the clinking of tines over glassware in a call for attention from the stage where someone— the lord or lady of the house, he's sure— beckons their attendees to take heed.
Astarion has him by the shoulders.
Hooks his grip around pauldron and strapwork alike with uncharacteristic roughness and all but drags his dear amatus into the closet quickly opened at their side across a set of hurried steps, mouth-to-hungry-mouth and seizing with desire. Fangs clicking against teeth. Ears ringing. Tongues lost in the scuffle and nearly nicked by the sharper points from canines, they collide, falling into each other— sparing only a single hand behind him just to shut the door.
In darkness illuminated by brilliant, azure-silver, everything crowds in. Coat sleeves and hangars, hat boxes and strung purses and the give of their weight where friction drives them.]
They all look clumsy, caught in the crosshairs of eclipsed hindsight.
Breathless, half-hard hindsight.]
Is that what the Crows expect from its flock now? Show up and fuck like rabbits in the nearest corridor closet? [Is a sly joke rooted in the very image that it paints when Astarion's eyes survey the lay of the wing itself from over armored shoulders (who's even bothering to notice them at all, in fact), around the shape of one dark ear tipped low across the peripheral borders of his vision. It is his heart that's thundering, rabbiting on scurried legs between the prickling flush blossoming beneath Leto's palpable voice and the narrow shiver that runs high along his inner thighs, soon flexed when one raised leg rocks itself against the fighter's own in full discretion— careful not to leave the sanctity of dark shadows. Obscured sightlines.
They're just a pair of colleagues having a chat, after all. And in that chat, slim fingers thread themselves through buckles and thin armor as a snake winds itself through grass, hunting for its next meal. Starvation all that drives it.]
My training must've been less thorough than yours.
....And far less interesting.
[They have a duty to perform. Blood and violence is, as Leto aptly mentioned, exactly why they're here when (or if) opportunity abides. The Venatori are clever when they wish to be. The Crows are territorial, self-serving on the best of days. The people here—
His touch snags. The pitch black gloves he wears in public aren't fond of the little gaps he's forcing them to tread, or the nimbleness the act demands; that second skin able to do the work, but it snags when it's caught against harsh metal joints, pulling back on all momentum.
And caged frustration's all it takes.
That, and the clinking of tines over glassware in a call for attention from the stage where someone— the lord or lady of the house, he's sure— beckons their attendees to take heed.
Astarion has him by the shoulders.
Hooks his grip around pauldron and strapwork alike with uncharacteristic roughness and all but drags his dear amatus into the closet quickly opened at their side across a set of hurried steps, mouth-to-hungry-mouth and seizing with desire. Fangs clicking against teeth. Ears ringing. Tongues lost in the scuffle and nearly nicked by the sharper points from canines, they collide, falling into each other— sparing only a single hand behind him just to shut the door.
In darkness illuminated by brilliant, azure-silver, everything crowds in. Coat sleeves and hangars, hat boxes and strung purses and the give of their weight where friction drives them.]
[He's not used to this.
This: the way he laughs breathlessly, giddily, as surprised as he is thrilled, as the closet door closes behind them— only to be cut off by the press of lips against his own, the wicked slide of a slick tongue swiftly consuming all of his attention. The world outside vanishes right along with his thoughts (of the mission, of the people gathered not ten feet away, of their teammates who will surely be looking for them all night). All that matters, all that he cares about, is squirming in the circle of his arms. He's not used to being so irresponsible. He's not used to having desires like this, desperate and frenetic, all of him suddenly consumed by a ravenous hunger to be close—
But Maker, he could get used to it.
His palms run over every inch of Astarion, shuddering for the difference between smooth leather and cool skin beneath his fingertips. Their mouths meet again and again, bruising kisses that grow hungrier by the second— more, an impatient groan each time they part panting for air, more, and he dives in to bite a second later, catching Astarion's lip between his teeth for a mean moment before soothing the spot with his tongue. Another kiss, another frantic rock of his hips against Astarion's own (and it doesn't matter that it barely does anything, for his cock is already hard enough to ache, and any bit of grinding stimulation is a relief). He draws back for a stolen breath of air and nearly whines for the way Astarion looks: his mouth reddened and slick, his scarlet eyes hazy with lust— venhedis, Leto breathes out in awe, and darts back in for another.
His hands slip down, blindly wedging themselves between them so he can try and pry at unfamiliar buttons and tightly tied laces.]
Ask sweetly and I'll show you what my training consisted of—
[He's grinning as he pants out the words, hot air exhaling against damp skin that he can't seem to leave alone: teeth catching against Astarion's neck again and again, his tongue dragging out to soften each bite, only to go back for another. He's fighting not to slice right through fabric, fighting to pry open buttons that don't seem to want to move, fighting to pick at a knot without being able to see—
Fuck it.
With a little growl he shoves Astarion forward, pinning him against the door and shoving one thigh between his own. Grind, a silent command urged by one clawed hand planted on his hip. His head ducks down at the next kiss, dodging it in favor of biting his way up a sharp jawline— and breathing hot in his ear.]
First lesson: show me just how good you are without using your hands, hm?
This: the way he laughs breathlessly, giddily, as surprised as he is thrilled, as the closet door closes behind them— only to be cut off by the press of lips against his own, the wicked slide of a slick tongue swiftly consuming all of his attention. The world outside vanishes right along with his thoughts (of the mission, of the people gathered not ten feet away, of their teammates who will surely be looking for them all night). All that matters, all that he cares about, is squirming in the circle of his arms. He's not used to being so irresponsible. He's not used to having desires like this, desperate and frenetic, all of him suddenly consumed by a ravenous hunger to be close—
But Maker, he could get used to it.
His palms run over every inch of Astarion, shuddering for the difference between smooth leather and cool skin beneath his fingertips. Their mouths meet again and again, bruising kisses that grow hungrier by the second— more, an impatient groan each time they part panting for air, more, and he dives in to bite a second later, catching Astarion's lip between his teeth for a mean moment before soothing the spot with his tongue. Another kiss, another frantic rock of his hips against Astarion's own (and it doesn't matter that it barely does anything, for his cock is already hard enough to ache, and any bit of grinding stimulation is a relief). He draws back for a stolen breath of air and nearly whines for the way Astarion looks: his mouth reddened and slick, his scarlet eyes hazy with lust— venhedis, Leto breathes out in awe, and darts back in for another.
His hands slip down, blindly wedging themselves between them so he can try and pry at unfamiliar buttons and tightly tied laces.]
Ask sweetly and I'll show you what my training consisted of—
[He's grinning as he pants out the words, hot air exhaling against damp skin that he can't seem to leave alone: teeth catching against Astarion's neck again and again, his tongue dragging out to soften each bite, only to go back for another. He's fighting not to slice right through fabric, fighting to pry open buttons that don't seem to want to move, fighting to pick at a knot without being able to see—
Fuck it.
With a little growl he shoves Astarion forward, pinning him against the door and shoving one thigh between his own. Grind, a silent command urged by one clawed hand planted on his hip. His head ducks down at the next kiss, dodging it in favor of biting his way up a sharp jawline— and breathing hot in his ear.]
First lesson: show me just how good you are without using your hands, hm?
[There comes a near-deafening thud as the closet door rattles on its hinges, reverberating through Astarion's back teeth and jostling the space between their legs— what little there is to speak of made tighter with turbulent touch— and that's to say nothing regarding the streaks of adoration drawn hot across his throat, smoldering underneath his collar line. Phreatic as it burns beneath his skin and senses, both. Heady as intoxication and more than half as stupefying, as he only reaches back to push his hand across the doorknob (the place where metal not-quite-flush sits against metal is the place most susceptible to rattling— all too keen to rat them out before they've even started their affair), his left heel jammed against the frame— anything to keep it still and shut behind them. To keep this foolish game between them going for as long as it'll take to finish.
Or get close to it.]
Fasta vass— [scarcely manages to sound scolding (it runs thick against the roof of his mouth with cloying infatuation), bucking his intent with too much wildness to bridle— and by the end of that same breath it's turned molten alongside him, all but bearing down across every last tangible inch of his companion, starting with the rolling of his shoulders (starting with the cinching of his thighs, feeling muscle through the dig of armored legplates). A passing knock of his cheek against Leto's own portraying something of sobriety, for it's an equally short lived surrogate: lasting only as long as the sound itself— daggered teeth and a wicked tongue close around one tender, downturned ear like a hound upon its hunt, prey drive nothing but a fever.
He has to drive back against the urge to bite down. When the only craving he's ever known is blood, his body knows no other way to react.
(Stars and gods above, this is the man he loves. The one he'd waited centuries to find, and would've waited lifetimes more had it come to that, he's convinced of it now. But then again, he's been convinced for longer than he'd ever willingly acknowledged. Since the Silent Plains. Since the first time he laid eyes on him, half-blind and fumbling at his own temples like a fool. He's been wanted like this before thousands upon thousands of times, crammed into corners and alley sidestreets on command, but he's never wanted like this—
Not even Cazador.)
So it is a show. A performance, raunchy and demanding: dextrous thighs working till they ache to satisfy an appetite he only measures in response right from the start. Arching through his hips so that his stiffened prick snags hard against the lining of his trousers, sticking to the places where it finds sweet purchase and relishing each chance to bed in close against thick, accompanying heat.]
....is it everything you couldn't wait for....? [Is a whisper laid down slow, and punctuated by his body's machinations. It constricts and catches, suffuses when it snares, still clothed and rutting like he means to fuck him senseless in the dark (though to their eyes, it's still bright).] Everything worth risking being caught for....? [And there's no burying the glint of pride that curls across his lips in wicked playfulness— ]
I'll undress you without my hands as well, if that's what you want. Show you what it is a thief is capable of when he's not prowling on a leash....all you need do is ask, my darling, and I'll—
[Cut short by the handle that he's holding jiggling from the other side. Another hand on the knob, and it wars with the grip he's keeping, shaking that brass fixture the way anyone would when assuming that a door is jammed.]
Or get close to it.]
Fasta vass— [scarcely manages to sound scolding (it runs thick against the roof of his mouth with cloying infatuation), bucking his intent with too much wildness to bridle— and by the end of that same breath it's turned molten alongside him, all but bearing down across every last tangible inch of his companion, starting with the rolling of his shoulders (starting with the cinching of his thighs, feeling muscle through the dig of armored legplates). A passing knock of his cheek against Leto's own portraying something of sobriety, for it's an equally short lived surrogate: lasting only as long as the sound itself— daggered teeth and a wicked tongue close around one tender, downturned ear like a hound upon its hunt, prey drive nothing but a fever.
He has to drive back against the urge to bite down. When the only craving he's ever known is blood, his body knows no other way to react.
(Stars and gods above, this is the man he loves. The one he'd waited centuries to find, and would've waited lifetimes more had it come to that, he's convinced of it now. But then again, he's been convinced for longer than he'd ever willingly acknowledged. Since the Silent Plains. Since the first time he laid eyes on him, half-blind and fumbling at his own temples like a fool. He's been wanted like this before thousands upon thousands of times, crammed into corners and alley sidestreets on command, but he's never wanted like this—
Not even Cazador.)
So it is a show. A performance, raunchy and demanding: dextrous thighs working till they ache to satisfy an appetite he only measures in response right from the start. Arching through his hips so that his stiffened prick snags hard against the lining of his trousers, sticking to the places where it finds sweet purchase and relishing each chance to bed in close against thick, accompanying heat.]
....is it everything you couldn't wait for....? [Is a whisper laid down slow, and punctuated by his body's machinations. It constricts and catches, suffuses when it snares, still clothed and rutting like he means to fuck him senseless in the dark (though to their eyes, it's still bright).] Everything worth risking being caught for....? [And there's no burying the glint of pride that curls across his lips in wicked playfulness— ]
I'll undress you without my hands as well, if that's what you want. Show you what it is a thief is capable of when he's not prowling on a leash....all you need do is ask, my darling, and I'll—
[Cut short by the handle that he's holding jiggling from the other side. Another hand on the knob, and it wars with the grip he's keeping, shaking that brass fixture the way anyone would when assuming that a door is jammed.]
[....hush.... Astarion murmurs against the shell of Leto's ear as what feels like an eternity passes, so low as to border there on soundlessness itself. Holding fast against the next jostle, and the next little shove—
—and mutters a curse in thick Antivan before audibly striding away towards the crowds.]
—and mutters a curse in thick Antivan before audibly striding away towards the crowds.]
[He shudders for that breathed-out command. White teeth sink deep into his bottom lip as Leto bites back a moan, his eyes fluttering closed even as the knob jostles and shakes. Hush, and his cock twitches just once in eager response, precome soaking into his smalls as he strains at his trousers. Every second feels like an eternity; his heart thunders in his chest, his senses filled with the flowery scent of his lover as they linger in frozen anticipation. Another jostle— another shove—
And the gusty exhale of relief he offers isn't because they haven't been caught— but because he's so damned desperate to get his hands back on his mate.]
You have the uncanny ability to always make me forget the risk. In front of windows or near a broken wall, out in an alley, at a party in which we are meant to be working . . . [A kiss to his cheek, his jaw, his lips: his tongue swiping just once against swollen flesh before Leto draws back. He's so aware that he doesn't have Astarion's silver tongue when it comes to filthy talk— but on the other hand, Maker, Astarion is so damned enthusiastic about what he does offer.] But dressed like this . . .
[His eyes drag slowly over Astarion's form, lingering on the swathes of bare skin, the tapering curve of a lean waist.]
. . . you drive every thought out of my head, save how fast I can undress you.
Now . . . make sure the door stays closed.
[Murmured as he sinks down to his knees, never once taking his eyes off Astarion. Broad palms run over bare skin, fingertips worshipful as he maps out every inch of that damning waist, memorizing every curve, every line, every scar and mole and freckle on pretty, perfect skin— until at last his fingers reach his waistband, and Leto groans softly.
All you need do is ask, my darling, and he will, oh, yes. He'll give Astarion everything and anything he pleases.]
Will you let me take you here?
[It's easier to see what he's doing now, and he's a deft hand besides: soon those trousers are unbuttoned and slinging low on Astarion's hips. Leto leans forward, nosing at his still-hidden cock, mouthing at him obscenely through thin fabric— tongue lapping and licking until the fabric grows slick, heat radiating from his prick to his lips through the thinnest of barriers.]
Can I put my tongue to you, amatus? Worship you with my mouth the way you deserve— the way I always long to whenever I see you, no matter how short a time it's been?
[The words are deferential, but the tone isn't: there's an almost mocking edge to it, coyly teasing as he feels his cock stiffen. With a little grin Leto leans in, catching thin fabric between his teeth and tugging at it until it lowers, and oh— oh, there he is. Heavy and hard already, precome smeared at the tip and every inch of him so vulgarly appealing that it's all Leto can do not to whine and beg.
He swallows thickly just once. And then, with all the care in the world, leans in just close enough so that his lips brush against the crown of his cock, gliding there as he murmurs:]
Will you fuck my mouth, and show me what you're truly capable of when you're off your leash?
And the gusty exhale of relief he offers isn't because they haven't been caught— but because he's so damned desperate to get his hands back on his mate.]
You have the uncanny ability to always make me forget the risk. In front of windows or near a broken wall, out in an alley, at a party in which we are meant to be working . . . [A kiss to his cheek, his jaw, his lips: his tongue swiping just once against swollen flesh before Leto draws back. He's so aware that he doesn't have Astarion's silver tongue when it comes to filthy talk— but on the other hand, Maker, Astarion is so damned enthusiastic about what he does offer.] But dressed like this . . .
[His eyes drag slowly over Astarion's form, lingering on the swathes of bare skin, the tapering curve of a lean waist.]
. . . you drive every thought out of my head, save how fast I can undress you.
Now . . . make sure the door stays closed.
[Murmured as he sinks down to his knees, never once taking his eyes off Astarion. Broad palms run over bare skin, fingertips worshipful as he maps out every inch of that damning waist, memorizing every curve, every line, every scar and mole and freckle on pretty, perfect skin— until at last his fingers reach his waistband, and Leto groans softly.
All you need do is ask, my darling, and he will, oh, yes. He'll give Astarion everything and anything he pleases.]
Will you let me take you here?
[It's easier to see what he's doing now, and he's a deft hand besides: soon those trousers are unbuttoned and slinging low on Astarion's hips. Leto leans forward, nosing at his still-hidden cock, mouthing at him obscenely through thin fabric— tongue lapping and licking until the fabric grows slick, heat radiating from his prick to his lips through the thinnest of barriers.]
Can I put my tongue to you, amatus? Worship you with my mouth the way you deserve— the way I always long to whenever I see you, no matter how short a time it's been?
[The words are deferential, but the tone isn't: there's an almost mocking edge to it, coyly teasing as he feels his cock stiffen. With a little grin Leto leans in, catching thin fabric between his teeth and tugging at it until it lowers, and oh— oh, there he is. Heavy and hard already, precome smeared at the tip and every inch of him so vulgarly appealing that it's all Leto can do not to whine and beg.
He swallows thickly just once. And then, with all the care in the world, leans in just close enough so that his lips brush against the crown of his cock, gliding there as he murmurs:]
Will you fuck my mouth, and show me what you're truly capable of when you're off your leash?
[He sees red. He tastes blood.
His own lip, bitten too hard in a gouging pinch between incisors, polluting the inside of his mouth with the rich embodiment of what he is at heart. (His laugh had been so thready, sharper at the end. Toying with the edges of an Orlesian mask as Gwenaëlle found herself squinting back, clearly not grasping the punchline: even here, even changed, even behind a pretty mask— a monster is still a monster.)
His chest heaves slightly as he watches blunter teeth tug fabric low around his middle-thighs, each and ever smoldering breath washing over softer skin like a fever before— oh before— (he runs raw; he clicks his teeth and rucks his hips, dark feathers tickling the underside of his jaw like fingertips in full caress; he grabs for something— the shoulder of a woolen coat— and it peels away from its hanger, spilling to the floor alongside his grip, leaving him more slung, more desperate, more arched forwards into the measure of those lips, nearly driving past them with shoving force. He's too far back across his heels, and he feels unmade in the sweetest sense. He feels that monstrous, keen desire. He tastes copper, and the crowding of his fangs against his tongue, and the buildup of his lungs as they burn for his held breath.)
He's stronger than he was, but for better or worse, he's a tiger in the body of a kitten.
When his grip hooks on either side in silver hair behind downturned ears like handles, it's without an overwhelming flood of strength. Even so, through the haze of panting lust, he's a dextrous, clever thing. He has leverage on his side. The advantage of his positioning. Height. It takes only a twist where he stands (starting from one heel set against the wall, then he presses, pivoting his hips and his latched grip)— and he's now braced against the wall, facing it upright, whilst Leto (his Leto) is pinned between both still on his knees: head caught between those hands, back and shoulders flush to plaster with nowhere left to go.
Hollow exhales from above. Reflective eyes, cast down.]
When you can't walk tomorrow, or we find ourselves exposed because you can't stop your mewling....
....don't say I didn't warn you, darling.
[His first thrust in past the border of softly parted lips, it doesn't ask. Doesn't wait.
It daggers.]
His own lip, bitten too hard in a gouging pinch between incisors, polluting the inside of his mouth with the rich embodiment of what he is at heart. (His laugh had been so thready, sharper at the end. Toying with the edges of an Orlesian mask as Gwenaëlle found herself squinting back, clearly not grasping the punchline: even here, even changed, even behind a pretty mask— a monster is still a monster.)
His chest heaves slightly as he watches blunter teeth tug fabric low around his middle-thighs, each and ever smoldering breath washing over softer skin like a fever before— oh before— (he runs raw; he clicks his teeth and rucks his hips, dark feathers tickling the underside of his jaw like fingertips in full caress; he grabs for something— the shoulder of a woolen coat— and it peels away from its hanger, spilling to the floor alongside his grip, leaving him more slung, more desperate, more arched forwards into the measure of those lips, nearly driving past them with shoving force. He's too far back across his heels, and he feels unmade in the sweetest sense. He feels that monstrous, keen desire. He tastes copper, and the crowding of his fangs against his tongue, and the buildup of his lungs as they burn for his held breath.)
He's stronger than he was, but for better or worse, he's a tiger in the body of a kitten.
When his grip hooks on either side in silver hair behind downturned ears like handles, it's without an overwhelming flood of strength. Even so, through the haze of panting lust, he's a dextrous, clever thing. He has leverage on his side. The advantage of his positioning. Height. It takes only a twist where he stands (starting from one heel set against the wall, then he presses, pivoting his hips and his latched grip)— and he's now braced against the wall, facing it upright, whilst Leto (his Leto) is pinned between both still on his knees: head caught between those hands, back and shoulders flush to plaster with nowhere left to go.
Hollow exhales from above. Reflective eyes, cast down.]
When you can't walk tomorrow, or we find ourselves exposed because you can't stop your mewling....
....don't say I didn't warn you, darling.
[His first thrust in past the border of softly parted lips, it doesn't ask. Doesn't wait.
It daggers.]
[Astarion makes him so damned needy. So utterly desperate as he has not been in years— as he has never been, maybe, for even with Isabela he never felt so pitch-black ravenous, eternally starved and perpetually unslaked. Sparks of pain-pleasure electrify him as fingers knot in his hair; he gasps involuntarily as he's pinned into place, kept upright and still. Astarion speaks, and Leto truly can't tell if it's the taunting words or the teasing bumps of his crown against his lips that has him salivating— only that he's already drooling when that first thrust takes him so cruelly.
Oh, and though he fights not to moan, he can't be silent, not completely: a muffled whine vibrates in his throat as his cock pumps in and out of his mouth. Again and again the heavy weight of his prick glides over his tongue in the most paradoxical assault: relentless and yet only to a point, each thrust only taking so much before drawing back again. You want this, you need this, his cock coaxing open unresistant lips and dipping into a drooling mouth, teasing him right up until he bumps against the back of his throat— and then back. His eyes linger on the sight of those scant few untouched inches, desperate to swallow them down— and yet each time, no matter how he tries to strain his head forward or whine in pitiful pleading, he's denied his treat.
He shoves his hand down, blindly palming at himself, his eyes rolling back as he's given the barest of relief— and oh, it's not enough. His eyes flick up, seeking out Astarion's in the dark. He's still so new at this act and gags more often than not, but he's learning. He wants to learn, no matter how long it takes. One hand rises, fingertips ghosting down the span of that slender waist, as he tips his chin up and tries to relax the muscles in his throat.
Come take me, for he is determined to swallow all of him down now.]
Oh, and though he fights not to moan, he can't be silent, not completely: a muffled whine vibrates in his throat as his cock pumps in and out of his mouth. Again and again the heavy weight of his prick glides over his tongue in the most paradoxical assault: relentless and yet only to a point, each thrust only taking so much before drawing back again. You want this, you need this, his cock coaxing open unresistant lips and dipping into a drooling mouth, teasing him right up until he bumps against the back of his throat— and then back. His eyes linger on the sight of those scant few untouched inches, desperate to swallow them down— and yet each time, no matter how he tries to strain his head forward or whine in pitiful pleading, he's denied his treat.
He shoves his hand down, blindly palming at himself, his eyes rolling back as he's given the barest of relief— and oh, it's not enough. His eyes flick up, seeking out Astarion's in the dark. He's still so new at this act and gags more often than not, but he's learning. He wants to learn, no matter how long it takes. One hand rises, fingertips ghosting down the span of that slender waist, as he tips his chin up and tries to relax the muscles in his throat.
Come take me, for he is determined to swallow all of him down now.]
[He does.
Muffling him takes every inch of his damned cock. Every last measurement of his unimpeded will. Relentless just to keep this silent— driving heavy for the bottom* of that waiting throat. Guiding with a thumb press here, a squeeze there, little warnings that try to signal when it's time to breathe compared to when it's time to swallow. Trying to fabricate a language without words, something mutual and distinctly theirs, starting with the interplay of weight and wanting: the sight of Leto's hand working in the dark, more elbow visible than anything else beneath the vulgar pumping of a higher sight, shadows just a blur of movement underneath glazed, full lips. Eyes gone lidded and unfixed. Lost to control. To rhythm. To even the cacaphony outside, surrounded by a locked door and shuttered clothing. What's in the forefront should be everything that drives fine prickles of excitement up his nape— and it is—
But he can't stop staring without blinking. Till his eyes burn with dryness, sharper on each successive soundless groan that finally presses them closed for just a beat or two. Transfixed by the way Leto's working at himself, by the occasional gag or reeling drag that yanks on their direction before he's melting yet again, and all the while, his hands work. Signaling more than just arousal. How content he is to meet this without hesitation; content to rest on his sore knees before Astarion rather than the other way round, indulging himself so deeply that it's no afterthought, the way he fights with all his senses to get off.
And Astarion meets that.
Magnetized. Charged. Flaring with every breath he's still not used to taking, quickening his pace as much as neophytic tolerance allows without asphyxiation, there's a jiggle of the handle yet again and ill-advised as logic would find it Astarion slams his hand against the door in firm retaliation, quickly silencing the attempt to retrieve belongings from the other side. It won't last, he knows, but like an animal swatting from its den, for now, his instincts insist forestalling is enough.
Until either he sees white across those lips, or Leto sees it buzzing hot throughout his senses, no one is getting through that door.]
Muffling him takes every inch of his damned cock. Every last measurement of his unimpeded will. Relentless just to keep this silent— driving heavy for the bottom* of that waiting throat. Guiding with a thumb press here, a squeeze there, little warnings that try to signal when it's time to breathe compared to when it's time to swallow. Trying to fabricate a language without words, something mutual and distinctly theirs, starting with the interplay of weight and wanting: the sight of Leto's hand working in the dark, more elbow visible than anything else beneath the vulgar pumping of a higher sight, shadows just a blur of movement underneath glazed, full lips. Eyes gone lidded and unfixed. Lost to control. To rhythm. To even the cacaphony outside, surrounded by a locked door and shuttered clothing. What's in the forefront should be everything that drives fine prickles of excitement up his nape— and it is—
But he can't stop staring without blinking. Till his eyes burn with dryness, sharper on each successive soundless groan that finally presses them closed for just a beat or two. Transfixed by the way Leto's working at himself, by the occasional gag or reeling drag that yanks on their direction before he's melting yet again, and all the while, his hands work. Signaling more than just arousal. How content he is to meet this without hesitation; content to rest on his sore knees before Astarion rather than the other way round, indulging himself so deeply that it's no afterthought, the way he fights with all his senses to get off.
And Astarion meets that.
Magnetized. Charged. Flaring with every breath he's still not used to taking, quickening his pace as much as neophytic tolerance allows without asphyxiation, there's a jiggle of the handle yet again and ill-advised as logic would find it Astarion slams his hand against the door in firm retaliation, quickly silencing the attempt to retrieve belongings from the other side. It won't last, he knows, but like an animal swatting from its den, for now, his instincts insist forestalling is enough.
Until either he sees white across those lips, or Leto sees it buzzing hot throughout his senses, no one is getting through that door.]
[He barely registers the slap of palm against wood, his world narrowed into darkened confines where the only thing that matters is the endless suckling worship of his beloved. What began as a heated tease has become something hypnotically hungrier, every bit of him focused only on savoring every pump of pale hips, every guiding press of cool fingers and heated exhales. His tongue caresses against ridges and bumps as spit bubbles and drips down his chin; searing heat forces his jaw wider, coaxes his throat into ceding more, as all the while Leto fights to keep his eyes locked upright.
And it's not the pretty flush he's focused on, nor the way Astarion's own mouth has dropped open in sympathetic echo. It's the look in his eyes as he stares down at him, breathless and almost awestruck. It takes Leto far too many dreamy seconds to realize just why that might be— but oh, this is all so new. Their relationship, their sex, even their friendship— and what slave (no matter how many years free) will ever expect to be tended to so sweetly?
(How many times had he flinched from Isabela's unexpected touch over the years, surprised in the best way to find someone caring about his own pleasure?)
I love you, he thinks suddenly, the thought flashing like lightning through his mind. They've only said it a handful of times so far, still learning the other's habits and preferences, but oh, it's as true now as it was that night in Rialto. I love you, I love you, I love this, and every slick suckling and eager swallow is offered as worshipful proof. Astarion's cock swells on his tongue, bitter droplets pattering steadily down his throat. There's a sudden desperation to the way he fucks Leto's mouth, and with every suckling swallow he tries to encourage it. Take it, take me, moaning softly each time his cock sinks into virginal confines never once touched until now. Every thrust feels like a possessive claim, shaping his throat around the swell of that heavy prick, his muscles gagging around the only thing that he'll ever take again— just yours, and as they catch one another's eye again, he wonders if Astarion can hear it.
He fights to remember to breathe and foregoes it half the time in greedy desperation, taking that cock to the root with a whine he can't be bothered to muffle. More, his cheeks hollowing, his tongue lathing, fighting to remember every sweet correction and adoring lesson Astarion has ever offered him as he drives him to his finish— and moans eagerly in triumph when he feels him begin to spill.
He swallows the first pulse down eagerly, greedy to the marrow, and jerks his head back during the second— he wants the best of both worlds, to swallow and to tease all at once. But he's just a touch too inexperienced when it comes to tending to another's cock, for the movement is too fast, too eager— so that he ends up drooling pearl, cream smearing on his lips and splattering over his face. And yet even that isn't so bad— not when he can pant up at Astarion, tongue extended and eyes glazed, covered in his claim and utterly worshipful in his countenance.]
And it's not the pretty flush he's focused on, nor the way Astarion's own mouth has dropped open in sympathetic echo. It's the look in his eyes as he stares down at him, breathless and almost awestruck. It takes Leto far too many dreamy seconds to realize just why that might be— but oh, this is all so new. Their relationship, their sex, even their friendship— and what slave (no matter how many years free) will ever expect to be tended to so sweetly?
(How many times had he flinched from Isabela's unexpected touch over the years, surprised in the best way to find someone caring about his own pleasure?)
I love you, he thinks suddenly, the thought flashing like lightning through his mind. They've only said it a handful of times so far, still learning the other's habits and preferences, but oh, it's as true now as it was that night in Rialto. I love you, I love you, I love this, and every slick suckling and eager swallow is offered as worshipful proof. Astarion's cock swells on his tongue, bitter droplets pattering steadily down his throat. There's a sudden desperation to the way he fucks Leto's mouth, and with every suckling swallow he tries to encourage it. Take it, take me, moaning softly each time his cock sinks into virginal confines never once touched until now. Every thrust feels like a possessive claim, shaping his throat around the swell of that heavy prick, his muscles gagging around the only thing that he'll ever take again— just yours, and as they catch one another's eye again, he wonders if Astarion can hear it.
He fights to remember to breathe and foregoes it half the time in greedy desperation, taking that cock to the root with a whine he can't be bothered to muffle. More, his cheeks hollowing, his tongue lathing, fighting to remember every sweet correction and adoring lesson Astarion has ever offered him as he drives him to his finish— and moans eagerly in triumph when he feels him begin to spill.
He swallows the first pulse down eagerly, greedy to the marrow, and jerks his head back during the second— he wants the best of both worlds, to swallow and to tease all at once. But he's just a touch too inexperienced when it comes to tending to another's cock, for the movement is too fast, too eager— so that he ends up drooling pearl, cream smearing on his lips and splattering over his face. And yet even that isn't so bad— not when he can pant up at Astarion, tongue extended and eyes glazed, covered in his claim and utterly worshipful in his countenance.]
Edited 2025-06-26 02:28 (UTC)
[And then the door rattles again. Someone curses in Neverran, and there's the sound of a key scraping against metal—]
Fasta vass—
[With a sharp hiss Leto shoves a hand against his mouth, struggling to rise to his feet and wipe away the mess all without outright banging into Astarion or coats and making a racket. Not that it matters: there's only one way out, and even if they could come up with an excuse, well. Leto's lips are flushed and sore, his hair damp with sweat, and that's to say nothing of the way he's outright straining at his pants.
A moment's attempt at rearrangement does nothing, and Fenris curses beneath his breath again. But oh, fuck it— maybe if he . . . walks fast? Ugh. Whatever. With luck, the only people that will see him are strangers he'll never meet again.]
Let me go first.
[At least that way he can ensure more of the attention is on him— and also, incidentally, hightail it out the door as fast as dignity will permit him.]
Fasta vass—
[With a sharp hiss Leto shoves a hand against his mouth, struggling to rise to his feet and wipe away the mess all without outright banging into Astarion or coats and making a racket. Not that it matters: there's only one way out, and even if they could come up with an excuse, well. Leto's lips are flushed and sore, his hair damp with sweat, and that's to say nothing of the way he's outright straining at his pants.
A moment's attempt at rearrangement does nothing, and Fenris curses beneath his breath again. But oh, fuck it— maybe if he . . . walks fast? Ugh. Whatever. With luck, the only people that will see him are strangers he'll never meet again.]
Let me go first.
[At least that way he can ensure more of the attention is on him— and also, incidentally, hightail it out the door as fast as dignity will permit him.]
[It's all so fast, you have to understand. Not the first time in his (un)life that's been the case, but it's the first time the aftermath of a whirlwind tussle's left him weak in the knees in ways he can feel right down to his own marrow— half-deaf beneath the ringing in his ears, panting so heavily through the opened lining of his collar, and all he can do despite himself is gawk as the world spins off its measured axis. As the corners of the room tilt downwards into gravity. As Fenris says something (for those pretty lips are moving, working into the light of a cracked doorway), deliberately angled if the unblinking locus of his stare translates to anything abstemious.
If any piece of this equation could be considered abstemious to start with.
Astarion certainly isn't. His swirling mind and animistic instincts aren't. And in that way all he can manage is to watch his lover leave in what feels like nothing but a blink— to what reception, he can't say— he's far too distracted once he's pulled himself together to give a damn how anyone attending so much as glances his way in the aftermath, let alone what they might say. Scandal in a place like this has merit regardless (is what he'll tell the head of Scouting once they return, without flinching), and carries the potential for desire alongside disaster, and only the confidence of the caught fool standing at its center matters when it comes to settling the difference.
His strides are quick. His focus farther than his sightlines, past shut doors and countless hallways that he navigates nose-first; a bloodhound in every last conclusive sense, so that when the washroom door slams shut behind him and Fenris finds himself pinned flat against the wall chest-first, it's with Astarion's teeth to the raised collar of his armor— daggered fangs scraping shallow rhythms in the gaps guarding his skin.
They've not said goodbye for the night.
Not after that.]
If any piece of this equation could be considered abstemious to start with.
Astarion certainly isn't. His swirling mind and animistic instincts aren't. And in that way all he can manage is to watch his lover leave in what feels like nothing but a blink— to what reception, he can't say— he's far too distracted once he's pulled himself together to give a damn how anyone attending so much as glances his way in the aftermath, let alone what they might say. Scandal in a place like this has merit regardless (is what he'll tell the head of Scouting once they return, without flinching), and carries the potential for desire alongside disaster, and only the confidence of the caught fool standing at its center matters when it comes to settling the difference.
His strides are quick. His focus farther than his sightlines, past shut doors and countless hallways that he navigates nose-first; a bloodhound in every last conclusive sense, so that when the washroom door slams shut behind him and Fenris finds himself pinned flat against the wall chest-first, it's with Astarion's teeth to the raised collar of his armor— daggered fangs scraping shallow rhythms in the gaps guarding his skin.
They've not said goodbye for the night.
Not after that.]
[(It's never been like this before).
The air bursts out of his lungs in one fell swoop as the world blurs; cool tile pushes against his cheek, his chest, the bare strip of skin along his lower belly where he'd managed to sling his leggings low on his hips. His lashes flutter as his eyes roll back, his mouth dropping open as cool fingers fit themselves to his wrists; he tips his head back, baring his throat willingly so those fangs will drag against his skin, every slow slide flirting with piercing skin and making his heart thunder.
(It's never been like this—)
He squirms, bucking his hips back, fighting just so he can feel that grip redouble, slender fingers putting pressure on the fine bones of his wrist as sharp hips snap forward, keeping him in place. Keeping him in the most damning position, his cock pinned against his belly and all of him helpless to do anything save feel. His thighs part, his back arches— he writhes again, groaning low in his throat to feel what he swears is the swell of an already stiffening prick (is he still slick? is he still dripping in an obscene mixture of saliva and pearl, the thought alone enough to make his own prick twitch.
(Like a blaze, like an inferno, all of him so suddenly and swiftly consumed— he's never stopped thinking like this, never felt so desperate, so ravenous, so eager, all good sense flying out the floor in favor of desperate desire that begs for more, more)—]
Astarion—
[Not just an invocation of his name, though for a heady few seconds it's all he can manage without outright moaning in overeager approval. Heat floods through his body, bringing a flush to his cheeks as sweat beads on his forehead; it barely matters they've barely started when he still has the memory of Astarion's prick heavy on his tongue. Fenris bites his lip and groans, his hips rocking back in echoing rhythm to the pace Astarion sets. Every movement grinds his cock up against the wall, middling pressure that is and isn't enough to sate his needy prick, and for a dizzying moment he wonders if Astarion means to get him off like this. Undignified and filthy, more suited to a teenager than a grown man, and yet he swears it won't be long.]
The— the door—
[He tips his head back, trying (vaguely) to catch his lover's eye. It's a losing battle, the words breathlessly said and his body moving all the while, but he's trying. One hand breaks free just so he can reach back, metal claws pricking through leather (pay attention)— and then, because he's beginning to realize just how much of an exhibitionist his lover truly is, adds:]
I don't want to be interrupted again, Astarion—
[On the other hand, how often do people really come back here? Down a hallway chosen specifically for its sparsity of population— and if they walk in, oh, who fucking cares so long as this doesn't stop. He swallows thickly, saliva thick on his tongue as his mind flits back to not five minutes ago, heavy weight on his tongue and swelling in his throat, overwhelming him, sating him just as much as every middling grind.]
Fasta vass— l-let me feel your hand on me, let me turn around—
[He wants to see him, taste him, touch him— dexterous fingers wrapping around the swell of his prick and hot breath ghosting against his lips, and the secret is, he doesn't care what they do, so long as Astarion doesn't stop.]
The air bursts out of his lungs in one fell swoop as the world blurs; cool tile pushes against his cheek, his chest, the bare strip of skin along his lower belly where he'd managed to sling his leggings low on his hips. His lashes flutter as his eyes roll back, his mouth dropping open as cool fingers fit themselves to his wrists; he tips his head back, baring his throat willingly so those fangs will drag against his skin, every slow slide flirting with piercing skin and making his heart thunder.
(It's never been like this—)
He squirms, bucking his hips back, fighting just so he can feel that grip redouble, slender fingers putting pressure on the fine bones of his wrist as sharp hips snap forward, keeping him in place. Keeping him in the most damning position, his cock pinned against his belly and all of him helpless to do anything save feel. His thighs part, his back arches— he writhes again, groaning low in his throat to feel what he swears is the swell of an already stiffening prick (is he still slick? is he still dripping in an obscene mixture of saliva and pearl, the thought alone enough to make his own prick twitch.
(Like a blaze, like an inferno, all of him so suddenly and swiftly consumed— he's never stopped thinking like this, never felt so desperate, so ravenous, so eager, all good sense flying out the floor in favor of desperate desire that begs for more, more)—]
Astarion—
[Not just an invocation of his name, though for a heady few seconds it's all he can manage without outright moaning in overeager approval. Heat floods through his body, bringing a flush to his cheeks as sweat beads on his forehead; it barely matters they've barely started when he still has the memory of Astarion's prick heavy on his tongue. Fenris bites his lip and groans, his hips rocking back in echoing rhythm to the pace Astarion sets. Every movement grinds his cock up against the wall, middling pressure that is and isn't enough to sate his needy prick, and for a dizzying moment he wonders if Astarion means to get him off like this. Undignified and filthy, more suited to a teenager than a grown man, and yet he swears it won't be long.]
The— the door—
[He tips his head back, trying (vaguely) to catch his lover's eye. It's a losing battle, the words breathlessly said and his body moving all the while, but he's trying. One hand breaks free just so he can reach back, metal claws pricking through leather (pay attention)— and then, because he's beginning to realize just how much of an exhibitionist his lover truly is, adds:]
I don't want to be interrupted again, Astarion—
[On the other hand, how often do people really come back here? Down a hallway chosen specifically for its sparsity of population— and if they walk in, oh, who fucking cares so long as this doesn't stop. He swallows thickly, saliva thick on his tongue as his mind flits back to not five minutes ago, heavy weight on his tongue and swelling in his throat, overwhelming him, sating him just as much as every middling grind.]
Fasta vass— l-let me feel your hand on me, let me turn around—
[He wants to see him, taste him, touch him— dexterous fingers wrapping around the swell of his prick and hot breath ghosting against his lips, and the secret is, he doesn't care what they do, so long as Astarion doesn't stop.]
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