[Gods damn him, what a sight he makes. Leaping forwards across consumptive, drooling inches, sating himself like a slavering thing pacing at the borders of its own enclosure, hungrier than it has any right to be— ready to devour. To gorge. To take.
In that moment, with his eyes downfixed and his hooded stare grown pitch, gloss stretched around the borders of plush lips and branded fingers, every muscle tenser than a band prepared to snap for being wound too tight— oh, in that moment, however fleeting for its soon-to-be savaging segue, Astarion could mistake him for a vampire.
But that's a fleeting thought.
By the time warm thighs wrap around him, hitched up over his boot and snug, he forgets to think of anything but flexion heat and the channeling rhythm of it all, worked over from the low point of his hips on down. Steady and all-encompassing; nothing left to force or ask for, save for the outreach of one trembling palm towards the doorway to cut short all its rattling between thrusts— between bucks— those shudders and half-caught groans that jostle shelves and all their bottled contents. What plays out in here will stay in here— is the last thought before there's such a sharpness in his ribs, spread lower, tighter, hotter— locked thick between set teeth at first, and channeled dangerously downwards with a molten ripple of electricity. One pulse. Another. Higher. Headier. Consumption begetting consumption, where each time Leto pulls back along the spearing breadth of Astarion's cock, another drilling thrust follows, eliminating the chase. Making it work to keep him out in those first few desperate seconds when—
no subject
In that moment, with his eyes downfixed and his hooded stare grown pitch, gloss stretched around the borders of plush lips and branded fingers, every muscle tenser than a band prepared to snap for being wound too tight— oh, in that moment, however fleeting for its soon-to-be savaging segue, Astarion could mistake him for a vampire.
But that's a fleeting thought.
By the time warm thighs wrap around him, hitched up over his boot and snug, he forgets to think of anything but flexion heat and the channeling rhythm of it all, worked over from the low point of his hips on down. Steady and all-encompassing; nothing left to force or ask for, save for the outreach of one trembling palm towards the doorway to cut short all its rattling between thrusts— between bucks— those shudders and half-caught groans that jostle shelves and all their bottled contents. What plays out in here will stay in here— is the last thought before there's such a sharpness in his ribs, spread lower, tighter, hotter— locked thick between set teeth at first, and channeled dangerously downwards with a molten ripple of electricity. One pulse. Another. Higher. Headier. Consumption begetting consumption, where each time Leto pulls back along the spearing breadth of Astarion's cock, another drilling thrust follows, eliminating the chase. Making it work to keep him out in those first few desperate seconds when—
Oh, when ecstasy overtakes him.]