[Spurred on, urged on— Leto shakes as he surges forward and wraps his lips around the dripping crown of Astarion's cock. Adrenaline roars through his veins, his heart slamming so hard in his chest he swears the entire bar can hear (and did they hear? do they know?, but Astarion would never let them). He feels as though he's run a mile; he feels as though he's just stumbled out of battle, his nerves on fire and his muscles aching for more, humiliation thundering through his every nerve, every cell—
And he pushes it all into worshipping the man before him.
Reverence channeled into the slick, lavishing slide of his lips as he swallows down Astarion's cock in one swift motion: his throat bobbing as he spreads open as sweetly as if he's done this thousand times before. His cheeks hollow and the swell in his throat a steady pulsation as he bobs his head forward and back, forward and back— lapping, suckling, milking his cock as it dips steadily in and out of cinched muscles gone lax with adoration. His hand drops, banded fingers squeezing tight around his own prick as he works himself with eager little snaps of his wrist.
But it isn't enough. Not when his cock is drooling over his fingers and the subtle pressure of Astarion's shoe still lingers between his thighs; not when all shame has been forgotten and there's nothing but the two of them right now, caught in a dynamic that Leto would rather die than offer any other person.
He inches forward until he can straddle his thighs around the lean line of Astarion's shin— and Leto ruts. His hips gliding as sweetly as any practiced whore's, his back arching and stomach rippling as he glides up and down, up and down, moving in tandem with the slick motions of his mouth. More, more, like he had a world away and so long ago, paid back for his own sadism and mercilessly forced— but oh, there's nothing guiding him now save his own lust. Hunger vivid and bright and eager, and a rhetorical question shining out of them: is this enough?]
no subject
And he pushes it all into worshipping the man before him.
Reverence channeled into the slick, lavishing slide of his lips as he swallows down Astarion's cock in one swift motion: his throat bobbing as he spreads open as sweetly as if he's done this thousand times before. His cheeks hollow and the swell in his throat a steady pulsation as he bobs his head forward and back, forward and back— lapping, suckling, milking his cock as it dips steadily in and out of cinched muscles gone lax with adoration. His hand drops, banded fingers squeezing tight around his own prick as he works himself with eager little snaps of his wrist.
But it isn't enough. Not when his cock is drooling over his fingers and the subtle pressure of Astarion's shoe still lingers between his thighs; not when all shame has been forgotten and there's nothing but the two of them right now, caught in a dynamic that Leto would rather die than offer any other person.
He inches forward until he can straddle his thighs around the lean line of Astarion's shin— and Leto ruts. His hips gliding as sweetly as any practiced whore's, his back arching and stomach rippling as he glides up and down, up and down, moving in tandem with the slick motions of his mouth. More, more, like he had a world away and so long ago, paid back for his own sadism and mercilessly forced— but oh, there's nothing guiding him now save his own lust. Hunger vivid and bright and eager, and a rhetorical question shining out of them: is this enough?]