[For his own part in this performance, he can't moan. Can't pant louder than the muffled blare of mummer's music wafting steadily from the tavern's crowded belly, something far less roaring than what he'd hoped for at this hour. Can't lift his voice past an enriched murmur and can't— once his weighted breadth finds its way once more to wedging past the tight foreswell of Leto's waiting throat— resign his voice to such a muted level without breaking on his own restraint. His paleknuckled inhibitions.
What little scraps of both he has left to him.
And for a while it's only that: the naked definition of use sprawled out savagely in both directions— wearing the guise of everything that Leto's besotted thoughts dictate— here, another night in Baldur's Gate like any other. Here, another lightless patron submerged within sequestered space, ravaging the hollow stretch that lust's afforded. Willing and waiting for the bruises on bent knees to form, and closer to it now that the pace becomes expansive. Fisted hold no longer guiding, or toying, or teasing— (oh, the view was beautiful while it lasted: those lidded eyes transparently transmitting each attempt to slacken, to swallow, to soften up like overwarmed sugar for the thrusts that took him over) but Astarion's prey drive's drawn to this more keenly— craves the pornographic, sloppy pop of satisfaction smeared across swollen lips when he daggers in too rapidly for mortal eyes to track.
Yet not too rapidly to feel.
Quick heat. Rolling pulsations of vibration that converge and rattle outwards. The way it feels to fuck into that doting mouth with all the seasoned urgency of mounting it. As if they were under the table still, and he were a coarser thing than what he truly is, winning at their wicked game and taking his payment with a hiked leg and a hand wrapped tight around the back of Leto's neck.
As things are, he's just a vampire in need, and the itch that he can't scratch is buried deep.
no subject
What little scraps of both he has left to him.
And for a while it's only that: the naked definition of use sprawled out savagely in both directions— wearing the guise of everything that Leto's besotted thoughts dictate— here, another night in Baldur's Gate like any other. Here, another lightless patron submerged within sequestered space, ravaging the hollow stretch that lust's afforded. Willing and waiting for the bruises on bent knees to form, and closer to it now that the pace becomes expansive. Fisted hold no longer guiding, or toying, or teasing— (oh, the view was beautiful while it lasted: those lidded eyes transparently transmitting each attempt to slacken, to swallow, to soften up like overwarmed sugar for the thrusts that took him over) but Astarion's prey drive's drawn to this more keenly— craves the pornographic, sloppy pop of satisfaction smeared across swollen lips when he daggers in too rapidly for mortal eyes to track.
Yet not too rapidly to feel.
Quick heat. Rolling pulsations of vibration that converge and rattle outwards. The way it feels to fuck into that doting mouth with all the seasoned urgency of mounting it. As if they were under the table still, and he were a coarser thing than what he truly is, winning at their wicked game and taking his payment with a hiked leg and a hand wrapped tight around the back of Leto's neck.
As things are, he's just a vampire in need, and the itch that he can't scratch is buried deep.
But maybe they're alike in that.]