[It's such a halting request. Hitching in the bones of itself, its ensuing transparency betrays that panting moon elf even in the blackness of a shuttered, unlit closet; as Cazador once assured a young thrall whose neophytic strain brought trouble home to roost beside him, a vampire sees all.

The quaking friction in the air that ripples past the bounds of Leto's skin. The way hot breath floods hard beneath his cock, leaving him humid and aroused in every sense— tempted to the lure of parted lips, a curling tongue— sweltering when he could be well submerged beneath the surface. And it's those eyes— those cattish, shining eyes that flare hollow between blinks in their petition, content to contrast supplication with their lifted stare— and work their damndest to telegraph every drop of stubbornness. Of pride.

Oh, it's obvious that he wants. Obvious how he wants. The little licks to abused lips when stop-start sentences go slack, and his pleas run closer to please ignore my disobeyal than please, slip your cock into my throat.

Astarion's thumb moves lower.

Hooks beneath an angled jaw— and pulls—

Till the lust-glazed crest of his prick smears down across Leto's tender mouth. Rigid when it displaces the softer map of skin it's fit to, nearly forcing deeper like a lover's probing tongue.

Will I?]

I'm undecided.

[A listless grind works into waiting contact, neither taking nor ceding— only touching— courting at the borders of defilement.]

If you can't swallow my demands like a good boy, then I can't be sure you're ready to be pushed against these shelves and broken in till sunrise.