[A cut-off moan is all that Leto manages before talons knot in his hair and heavy heat pumps deep into the searing, slick stretch of his mouth. His tongue forced flat and his jaw coaxed open, his eyes going from glittering to widened and watering as he fights to keep himself together. Again and again he swallows, fighting to control his breathing— to keep himself from moaning— to relax his throat and take every one of those pistoning thrusts as they mercilessly batter the back of his throat.
Stay quiet, stay quiet, an echoing command ringing in his mind— but it isn't moaning or mewling that's the problem. Rhythmic slick sounds punctuated only occasionally by the occasional gag are only muffled so much behind the thick swell of Astarion's cock; saliva gathers on his lips and drips down his chin, his throat bobbing again and again as he starts to settle into the rhythm. The trick is always not to fight it, and after a fretful few minutes—
Oh, he melts.
Sinking into the steady thrill of having his mouth filled and fucked and used, he gives up any thought of movement save where that tight grip directs him: his head tipped back or urged forward, fingers cruel as they tug on his hair like a leash. His palms lie flat on his thighs, his fingers curling and flexing as he fights the urge to touch himself— but with acceptance comes laxness, and it isn't long before his drunken mind forgets just why it was so important he stay quiet.
So it becomes a pattern: his eyes hooded and dark as a low moan builds in the base of his throat— only to be smothered in the next as his eyes widen, realization crashing through him again and again, the pattern faster and faster as his cock pistons into his mouth.]
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[A cut-off moan is all that Leto manages before talons knot in his hair and heavy heat pumps deep into the searing, slick stretch of his mouth. His tongue forced flat and his jaw coaxed open, his eyes going from glittering to widened and watering as he fights to keep himself together. Again and again he swallows, fighting to control his breathing— to keep himself from moaning— to relax his throat and take every one of those pistoning thrusts as they mercilessly batter the back of his throat.
Stay quiet, stay quiet, an echoing command ringing in his mind— but it isn't moaning or mewling that's the problem. Rhythmic slick sounds punctuated only occasionally by the occasional gag are only muffled so much behind the thick swell of Astarion's cock; saliva gathers on his lips and drips down his chin, his throat bobbing again and again as he starts to settle into the rhythm. The trick is always not to fight it, and after a fretful few minutes—
Oh, he melts.
Sinking into the steady thrill of having his mouth filled and fucked and used, he gives up any thought of movement save where that tight grip directs him: his head tipped back or urged forward, fingers cruel as they tug on his hair like a leash. His palms lie flat on his thighs, his fingers curling and flexing as he fights the urge to touch himself— but with acceptance comes laxness, and it isn't long before his drunken mind forgets just why it was so important he stay quiet.
So it becomes a pattern: his eyes hooded and dark as a low moan builds in the base of his throat— only to be smothered in the next as his eyes widen, realization crashing through him again and again, the pattern faster and faster as his cock pistons into his mouth.]