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.]
[....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.]
[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?
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.
[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.]
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 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.]
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no subject
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?
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.]
2/2
—and mutters a curse in thick Antivan before audibly striding away towards the crowds.]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
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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.]
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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.]