That's new, Leto thinks vaguely. The thought is a fragment caught within the roiling, churning sea of his drunken mind, fleeting and vague, but there nonetheless. That's new— and then he doubles back, doubting himself sluggishly. It isn't new, is it? But it is, it must be, Astarion has never called him that before— and yet he can hear a voice, thin and reedy, draping that name around his shoulders with mocking deference. Lost little princeling, the smell of spiced smoke thick in the air and diamonds cold against his skin, the memory as much about sensory intake as anything, and then—
It dissipates. And Leto shudders as the present crashes down around him again, intoxicating as it drowns him in heavy, humiliating heat. Leather, soft and supple, keeps him still through the slightest of touches, subtle pressure just firm enough to be felt without doing anything so crass as hurting him. Almost involuntarily he arches his back, pushing gently against his shoe just to feel— ah, and his cheeks grow darker, teeth digging into his bottom lip as another shudder runs through him. His head stays upturned, his view partially eclipsed by the heavy, seductive hang of Astarion's cock just above him.
His lips part in quiet longing, every heated exhale threaded with hunger. His mouth is watering, his lips aching for the feeling of being stretched wide and his tongue throbbing in protest. It would be the easiest thing in the world to stretch up by a few inches, tongue drawn out to offer worshipful little kitten-licks and lavishing devotion— and yet Leto stays still.
He knows his place (as his own cock drools and throbs beneath soft leather; as he pants like a whore, catching his breath and growing hungrier by the moment). And he relishes it.]
Please . . .
[If anyone were to walk in right now they'd suss out in an instant who's conquered whom. Not the young, arrogant little fighter with bruised knees and fucksore lips, no, not when he has precome smeared over his mouth and dripping down his chin. Not when the pale elf who holds him by the cock and coos down at him so patronizingly looks every bit the dangerous, arrogant master ready to teach this errant student a lesson he won't ever forget.
And yet Leto hesitates.
Pride and stubbornness rear their heads, indignance surging in him despite himself. He stays quiet for too long, his panting harsh and loud in the quiet of this closet, his eyes locked up on Astarion as he struggles to summon the words.]
Can I— will you—
[This always happens. It doesn't matter how humiliating their prior play has been nor how many hours they've been at it: Leto will always balk when it comes to actually having to say the words aloud. Spoiled slut of a consort that he's become (prideful warrior that he's always been), he always balks at asking.]
Will you fuck me?
[— and he always finds a way around it. No less deferential (and yet there's a spark in his eye); no less humiliating (but it is somehow, when one consists of permission and the other a request). And yet still, he trembles. Still, it's almost too much— and maybe what he wants is that push. That insistence as Astarion's (this stranger, different and distant) hands lock around his throat in mimic of a collar and insist no, you will do as you're told.
And, too, he wants to be fucked. And both can be true, in this dizzying space where it is and isn't them all at once.]
no subject
That's new, Leto thinks vaguely. The thought is a fragment caught within the roiling, churning sea of his drunken mind, fleeting and vague, but there nonetheless. That's new— and then he doubles back, doubting himself sluggishly. It isn't new, is it? But it is, it must be, Astarion has never called him that before— and yet he can hear a voice, thin and reedy, draping that name around his shoulders with mocking deference. Lost little princeling, the smell of spiced smoke thick in the air and diamonds cold against his skin, the memory as much about sensory intake as anything, and then—
It dissipates. And Leto shudders as the present crashes down around him again, intoxicating as it drowns him in heavy, humiliating heat. Leather, soft and supple, keeps him still through the slightest of touches, subtle pressure just firm enough to be felt without doing anything so crass as hurting him. Almost involuntarily he arches his back, pushing gently against his shoe just to feel— ah, and his cheeks grow darker, teeth digging into his bottom lip as another shudder runs through him. His head stays upturned, his view partially eclipsed by the heavy, seductive hang of Astarion's cock just above him.
His lips part in quiet longing, every heated exhale threaded with hunger. His mouth is watering, his lips aching for the feeling of being stretched wide and his tongue throbbing in protest. It would be the easiest thing in the world to stretch up by a few inches, tongue drawn out to offer worshipful little kitten-licks and lavishing devotion— and yet Leto stays still.
He knows his place (as his own cock drools and throbs beneath soft leather; as he pants like a whore, catching his breath and growing hungrier by the moment). And he relishes it.]
Please . . .
[If anyone were to walk in right now they'd suss out in an instant who's conquered whom. Not the young, arrogant little fighter with bruised knees and fucksore lips, no, not when he has precome smeared over his mouth and dripping down his chin. Not when the pale elf who holds him by the cock and coos down at him so patronizingly looks every bit the dangerous, arrogant master ready to teach this errant student a lesson he won't ever forget.
And yet Leto hesitates.
Pride and stubbornness rear their heads, indignance surging in him despite himself. He stays quiet for too long, his panting harsh and loud in the quiet of this closet, his eyes locked up on Astarion as he struggles to summon the words.]
Can I— will you—
[This always happens. It doesn't matter how humiliating their prior play has been nor how many hours they've been at it: Leto will always balk when it comes to actually having to say the words aloud. Spoiled slut of a consort that he's become (prideful warrior that he's always been), he always balks at asking.]
Will you fuck me?
[— and he always finds a way around it. No less deferential (and yet there's a spark in his eye); no less humiliating (but it is somehow, when one consists of permission and the other a request). And yet still, he trembles. Still, it's almost too much— and maybe what he wants is that push. That insistence as Astarion's (this stranger, different and distant) hands lock around his throat in mimic of a collar and insist no, you will do as you're told.
And, too, he wants to be fucked. And both can be true, in this dizzying space where it is and isn't them all at once.]