Even in the midst of upending desperation and all the rasping sounds it breeds, it punctuates its point through the slow dig of a raised boot sole tucked lower than quaking fingers. Welling trickles from a lush-rouged cock. A parade of strained desires that bubble up and glut with little sucks of air around the flush base of Astarion's stomach where it meets his swallowed prick, cascading down— down between jackhammer thrusts and slower, bedded pumps— to fall across Leto's cock, Leto's hand—
Oh, take that part back, that's the actor not the script.
A tavern trawling buck still sporting velvet outgrowths for horns. A cocksure little moon elf scrapper who'd bet his all on confidence that's turned tail now, leaving him less rich for surety....and absolutely smothered with cock.
Or maybe that's the one thing he's still sure of.
It must burn, Astarion thinks with a voice so divorced from longheld knowledge that it only focuses on the tight, fluttering pulsation that grips him till he's panting like he needs to— not the memories outside this room: the way his darling winces just to take him and yet softens up his stare, beseeching. Written in the corners of those doeish eyes his every plea— oh yes, it surely burns. Claiming pressure squeezed in closer to his collar than his adam's apple, from a singular blunt crest plugging him at its pistoning pleasure; drooling into him like the filthiest, demanding kiss.
The tip of Astarion's boot pushes soundly between the moon elf's open legs, rolling as it stills him.
—as he pulls himself out with filthy slickshine traces in the dark, resting the underside of his prick barely a centimeter above Leto's profile.]
no subject
Even in the midst of upending desperation and all the rasping sounds it breeds, it punctuates its point through the slow dig of a raised boot sole tucked lower than quaking fingers. Welling trickles from a lush-rouged cock. A parade of strained desires that bubble up and glut with little sucks of air around the flush base of Astarion's stomach where it meets his swallowed prick, cascading down— down between jackhammer thrusts and slower, bedded pumps— to fall across Leto's cock, Leto's hand—
Oh, take that part back, that's the actor not the script.
A tavern trawling buck still sporting velvet outgrowths for horns. A cocksure little moon elf scrapper who'd bet his all on confidence that's turned tail now, leaving him less rich for surety....and absolutely smothered with cock.
Or maybe that's the one thing he's still sure of.
It must burn, Astarion thinks with a voice so divorced from longheld knowledge that it only focuses on the tight, fluttering pulsation that grips him till he's panting like he needs to— not the memories outside this room: the way his darling winces just to take him and yet softens up his stare, beseeching. Written in the corners of those doeish eyes his every plea— oh yes, it surely burns. Claiming pressure squeezed in closer to his collar than his adam's apple, from a singular blunt crest plugging him at its pistoning pleasure; drooling into him like the filthiest, demanding kiss.
The tip of Astarion's boot pushes soundly between the moon elf's open legs, rolling as it stills him.
—as he pulls himself out with filthy slickshine traces in the dark, resting the underside of his prick barely a centimeter above Leto's profile.]
Ask quietly, little prince.