There's no reprieve. No pause. No moment where a mortal might need to catch his breath or regain stamina, oh, no— there's just desperate little moments, few and far between, where Astarion's hips slow their pace and it's all Leto can do to steal a shallow breath. Heavy heat finds tight, slick places and forces them open again and again, brutally claiming his throat and mounting it like a piston, like a toy, gliding hotly over his tongue and sadistic in its endless rapidfire rhythm. Drool patters down his chin; his lips are red and swollen as he tightens them again and again, cheeks hollow as he sucks so greedily at his treat.
And oh, the noise of it— moans suppressed and swallowed only means that the humiliatingly slick sounds of his mouth being mounted are amplified and emphasized, the noises so much more vulgar in the relative silence of this space. Sloppy suckling and desperate gulps echo in his ears (and how loud are they? can they hear outside?) with only the occasional gag serving as reminder that he isn't perfect at this just yet. Poor little pup, patronizing words cooed down at him from glittering fangs, and it doesn't matter if Astarion says it or he imagines it, for Leto's eyes roll back all the same.
And it's everything he wanted. Everything his greedy little mind longed for. It's humiliating degradation and filthy satisfaction, Astarion using him as though he's little more than slick, obedient hole there to be fucked and bred and used until he's stuffed so full of come that he ends up drooling it. Again and again his eyes dart towards the door, his heart thundering in his ears each time a voice comes close, only to shudder in paradoxical relief and disappointment when no one seems to notice.
(Greedy whelp. Needy little slut, too drunk and addled to remember what's good for him, fed so well and yet somehow longing for more still— oh, they're so very alike).
Fabric catches against stray splinters as his thighs spread open wider. His cock is straining at his pants, untouched and slick enough to soak into fabric; he lifts up just far enough that his hips can rock minutely, eagerly, jerking little motions that try their best to follow whatever rhythm Astarion sets. Like that, like that, his back arching and his eyes rolling back as if he's being mounted from both ends— as if he can feel that hammering force fucking up into him, splitting him open and impaling him, mounting him like the barroom whore he's half-fantasizing he is.
Until at last he can't stand it anymore— his hands finally fumbling towards the fastenings of his pants, fumbling as he unlaces himself. His cock springs out, drooling and dripping onto the floor; with a low moan he tries to catch Astarion's eye, silently begging for permission as he wraps his fingers tight around himself.]
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It's relentless.
There's no reprieve. No pause. No moment where a mortal might need to catch his breath or regain stamina, oh, no— there's just desperate little moments, few and far between, where Astarion's hips slow their pace and it's all Leto can do to steal a shallow breath. Heavy heat finds tight, slick places and forces them open again and again, brutally claiming his throat and mounting it like a piston, like a toy, gliding hotly over his tongue and sadistic in its endless rapidfire rhythm. Drool patters down his chin; his lips are red and swollen as he tightens them again and again, cheeks hollow as he sucks so greedily at his treat.
And oh, the noise of it— moans suppressed and swallowed only means that the humiliatingly slick sounds of his mouth being mounted are amplified and emphasized, the noises so much more vulgar in the relative silence of this space. Sloppy suckling and desperate gulps echo in his ears (and how loud are they? can they hear outside?) with only the occasional gag serving as reminder that he isn't perfect at this just yet. Poor little pup, patronizing words cooed down at him from glittering fangs, and it doesn't matter if Astarion says it or he imagines it, for Leto's eyes roll back all the same.
And it's everything he wanted. Everything his greedy little mind longed for. It's humiliating degradation and filthy satisfaction, Astarion using him as though he's little more than slick, obedient hole there to be fucked and bred and used until he's stuffed so full of come that he ends up drooling it. Again and again his eyes dart towards the door, his heart thundering in his ears each time a voice comes close, only to shudder in paradoxical relief and disappointment when no one seems to notice.
(Greedy whelp. Needy little slut, too drunk and addled to remember what's good for him, fed so well and yet somehow longing for more still— oh, they're so very alike).
Fabric catches against stray splinters as his thighs spread open wider. His cock is straining at his pants, untouched and slick enough to soak into fabric; he lifts up just far enough that his hips can rock minutely, eagerly, jerking little motions that try their best to follow whatever rhythm Astarion sets. Like that, like that, his back arching and his eyes rolling back as if he's being mounted from both ends— as if he can feel that hammering force fucking up into him, splitting him open and impaling him, mounting him like the barroom whore he's half-fantasizing he is.
Until at last he can't stand it anymore— his hands finally fumbling towards the fastenings of his pants, fumbling as he unlaces himself. His cock springs out, drooling and dripping onto the floor; with a low moan he tries to catch Astarion's eye, silently begging for permission as he wraps his fingers tight around himself.]