[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.]
1/2
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.]