[Mmmph, and there's a little moment of confusion as Astarion tries to scuff against his lips and Leto tries to nip at them again, resulting mostly in a bit of dampness and a light scratch instead of anything sensual, but whatever, moving on.]
For you, seductive thing, I challenge you to just the limitation. But if you want to take the easy way out, I'll accept the latter. For you.
[Isn't he such a lovely boyfriend? Isn't he doting? Isn't he trying to nip at those fingers again, oh, yes, he is, and to a bit of a mixed success, but it's fine. If anyone can handle a slightly-harder-than-meant bite, it's Astarion.]
[There's a moment— between bitten as fiercely as one of the pups in the midst of a full blown scuffle and then as gently as a newborn kitten— when Astarion has to tilt his fingers back towards his lover's avaricious mouth.
Helpfully, he does.]
Little barnyard kitten, let me take you home and see if I can make you yowl instead of meow with a collar round your pretty neck.
[Oh gods, he actually doesn't know how to respond to that. Leto blinks once, twice, torn halfway between a sharp bark of laughter (barnyard kitten) and something else (for they play with collars so often, it's not his fault he can't help the association— nor that he's drunk and hot for his darling, especially when his fingers feel so good against his mouth).]
Er—
[No, cover, cover, for the thought of being mercilessly teased for getting increasingly turned on by these lines is just enough to temper him.]
[Oh, he's so discreet. No one in the Realms themselves would ever suspect Leto's fluster as he suckles on his consort's fingers and goes red behind the ears.
All of which earns the most daggersharp flash of overlong white teeth from the creature that next hooks its grip under one beautifully striped chin, pulling.]
Once you understand that filth has a fondness for being fairly formulaic, you begin to realize could slot just about anything in and make it work— hah!— provided you say it in the gravitational midst of licking at your chops.
[He is a master class in subterfuge right now, especially drunk. Besotted creature prone to puppy eyes when conversation wanders— and who bites his lip as Astarion pulls him in closer, playing utterly unfairly with that grip.]
Er— no, I think not. I, I would not dare to try and step into your— your purview.
[Is that a sentence? Is that how words work? Hang on—]
This is your field— arena— thing, not mine. You do it far better. I'm content to merely listen.
[There we go, that's much more coherent, and also neatly not untrue. The fact that he's a little flustered and knows for a fact he'll sound like an idiot if he tries to say these things is secondary.
(Listen: he loves flirting with Astarion, murmuring filth in his ear or whispering romantic adoration against his moonlit skin— but it's one thing for him to say it in the heat of the moment. Another thing to try and perform.]
[Doeish eyes. Bitten lips. Cliches have merit for the way Astarion's drunken awareness leashes itself to both for more than a handful of sluggish seconds, effectively lost in them. Content to be.]
Repeat after me. [Tilts that chin a few degrees higher.]
I like [one coaxing little pause] watching you [and another, low and smouldering] do it more.
[Oh, gods, what is he meant to do when Astarion looks at him like that? When he sounds like that, his voice dripping in sin and his fangs gleaming as he coaxes anything he wants out of Leto . . . gods. He swallows thickly, absolutely aware he's being manipulated and utterly content with that state of affairs.
Less content, though, with what he's being told to do. But he'll try . . . and after all, he's flirted with him a thousand times. How much harder can this be?]
I like, [his voice an open imitation of Astarion's smouldering tone,] I like watching you do it more.
[And it's odd, because the words are right. The effort is there. Even the smouldering heat isn't false, but there's something off about it. He's tensed up despite himself, something in him instinctively curdling at the thought of performance. Couple that with a natural slurring of words, and it's . . . fine. Ish.]
[Astarion's thumb slides higher in search of softer borders, though observation brings on a quickset stop at the dead center of Leto's lower lip, and the breathtaking conclusion that he is handsome, this young, uneasy thing. More so in the sunken angle of his ears, and the widening of his eyes— tsavorite ceding into pitch.
Darling boy. Beloved boy. How could he ever judge you when you sound so enticing?
(When you're you.)]
Fret if you wish, I've no intention of holding you hostage any longer than I already have. [His inhale's gentle. Narrow. Sweet.] But you're more dashing than any of my long-toothed kin or marks combined, and there is no one whose seductions sway me more. The rest belongs with the Silverhands and Jannaths of the world for how irrelevant it is.
[Oh . . . and as his thumb brushes over his lips and he speaks to him so tenderly, Leto thinks that he can understand why all of Astarion's marks fell for him. Alluring thing, talented thing, so very deft at weaving sensuality and intimacy all in one seductive sentence.
And he knows without a shred of doubt that none of those marks ever heard anything close to this.]
Astarion . . .
[It's you. It's always you, and his heart aches for the sudden fierce surge of love that swells up within him. In an instant his fluster has melted away, though all the searing heat in his gaze lingers.]
I have never doubted it. Not when you look at me as you look at no other . . . not when I see how you light up for the sound of my voice, or melt beneath the press of my fingers.
[Astarion's thumb is cool against his bottom lip, subtle pressure encouraging him to part his lips (and he can't) and unfurl his tongue (and he won't), panting like a whore for his mate's approval. He's drunk enough that he actually considers it (the half-formed fantasy so clearly written in the way his lips part, desire growing in his gaze—)
But no. Leto tips his head forward, his lips curling up into more of a smirk.]
Not when even the sight of me asleep is enough to rile you some nights, so that I wake up sore and overfull and satisfied without a single memory as to why.
[Oh, now he's getting into it, for this is him, not some attempt at a line. His eyes flick towards the bartender, but no one is listening to them right now.]
And certainly not when it's been a long day and we're fighting, and suddenly you give me that look. The one that says you want nothing more than to shove a gag smeared with aphrodisiacs into my mouth and strap me to some machine, watching as I'm fucked for hours on end until the only thing I remember how to do is moan out your name and try and beg you for a single finger . . .
Shall I go on? How was that, Astarion? If it isn't up to par . . . keep me captive. Tell me what to say.
[One of them is captive in this moment, and if the short clip of humid air that cuts between long fangs is indicative of anything, it isn't Leto. Oh, not with a view like that. A filthy little mouth like that worth claiming and thus willing; stained by wine but it's lust that carries through.
The mild tension pushed against his inseam jerks. Threatens to stiffen in a setting that hasn't noticed yet the sort of mischief they're imbibing with their play, but would certainly begin to take offense if he shifted his partner to the floor and started mouthfucking him at ale-height in plain view.
This isn't the damned Flophouse, after all.]
....are you religious, my darling? [Smoothly slides the soft pad of a clawed thumb back around the edge of Leto's lips, dragging slick.]
That, [he begins, his voice pitched low and his eyes locked on Astarion,] depends very much on what you mean.
[It takes every ounce of willpower for him not to moan like a bitch in heat for the slow, slick slide of Astarion's thumb. Yes please yes, and it comes out in other ways: his mouth parting ever so slightly as his head tips down just far enough to suggest that he wants nothing so much as to take that sinful digit between his lips.]
You will not find me in any temple . . . but ask me to worship your cock and I'll become more devoted than any acolyte. [His head tips, his lips wrapping for the briefest moment around the swell of his thumb.] I'll drop to my knees and offer you as many prayers as it takes to earn your favor, until you deign to release me from your service . . .
[He can imagine it, you know. Underneath the placid surface of his own unflinching expression coils the thought of Leto heaving in the dark, his chest sore from sucking on oxygen and spittle, red in all the telltale places. Places that— at a glance— betray their nascent bloom as exactly what it is: an obscene road map drenched in sweat.
And the setting doesn't matter. It could be this floor (any floor), this bar (any bar)— fully clothed or wrapped in biting air— Astarion licks his hungry teeth for it all in the absolute present, craning closer like a serpent at Leto's ears to whisper:]
You should.
[A hiss. An unslaked rumble, melting into lightless contours.]
Because tonight I plan on bending you backwards until you find your god.
[A moan slips from his lips into Astarion's waiting ear, the noise low and overheated and hungry. Drunk as he is, enthralled as he is, he forgets the game. He forgets that Astarion is meant to be feeding him lines so they can laugh over their absurdity; he forgets where they are and why they aren't doing more than just talking.]
Is that a promise?
[Purred out as he draws back, moving just far enough to tip his head and steal a swift kiss. At the same his hand slips beneath the table, fingers caressing slowly up Astarion's thigh. Clever fingertips trace their way up the lean line of muscle, his smirk only growing as he feels familiar stiff heat.]
Why wait until tonight? You could have me on my knees right now— and I'll show you just how devoted I truly am . . .
[This time— and only this time— Astarion's velveted minauderie hitches in its moors, bringing him back to the forefront of this moment against the taste of brandy on hot lips. Hotter senses.
Far hotter inclinations.
He fits strong fingers over Leto's own under the table.]
[Oh, he does. He does, wholeheartedly and blissfully uninhibited, his cheeks flushed with eagerness and a youthful sort of recklessness. And though there's some small part of him crying out in alarm, oh, who cares? Perhaps they'll be noticed, but no matter what Leto tells himself, there's no one at any inn they ever stay at who doesn't know what they get up to on a nightly basis, and what's a few people more? It's a bar in a city full of millions of souls— and anyway, don't they deserve to live a little?
There's no harm. This isn't Thedas, where two elves caught rutting might bring salacious ruin upon their heads. This isn't Kirkwall, where everyone knows who he is and what he stands for, the Blue Wraith a symbol of terrified justice. He's just an adolescent moon elf here, drunk and in love, and though he has responsibilities here, duties here, things that he aims for and works towards— hells, why not act his age?
His hand strains at Astarion's grip, emerald eyes locking on darkened crimson. And drunk though he is, uninhibited though he is, there's no mistaking the consent in his gaze.
Nor the heat curling in his voice as he slyly adds:]
[That he could is a heat-provoking thought (a provocative thought to put it bluntly), blanketing the room around them; drawing their immediate arrangement to the fore.
The way their knuckles catch against each other for how tight they've intertwined. And though the term white-knuckled loses its bite as a descriptor when one's pallor needs only a minimal adjustment of a few letters to attest to possessed lightlessness itself, he can feel the duller ache of lacework tension flaring on and off beneath his skin. The way Leto's coiled muscle longs to work— and the way Astarion's longs to let him.
There is no harm, after all. Not really. Not truly. Just the nuisance of being asked to take it outside if the barkeep prefers decency, and from there, the substantially more aggravating bother of any patrons mistaking two intimately besotted elves for an invitation to join. Problems Astarion has versed experience in handling.
But he knows Leto's pride.
Tonight he'd gladly revel in debauchery. Tomorrow, he'd bemoan it eternally, and there'd be no end to that dismay. In other words: a modicum of privacy's required for their game of chase to continue onwards.
Which is how they wind up in the dark of a storeroom closet wedged in tight in every sense but the most lurid, as luck would have it: his back to flaccid shelving whose slatting bows when he leans back against its edge (how cheap does wood have to be to actually bend under pressure?) rickety door swaying back and forth in a position that only qualifies as shut owing to a section of thin twine wrapped around its knob. There are buckets on the floor and casks stacked behind broomsticks, which leaves so little room that it's a bloody miracle Leto has room to kneel— let alone tug open Astarion's finely tailored slacks.]
Easy— shh— [Is a coaxing murmur quickly bordering on a throaty chuckle, fingers coursing back across Leto's scalp once— twice— attempting to sooth some of that overly eager exolution.] If you're not quiet little wolf cub, someone will hear us.
[And gods, drunk as they are, it's a wonder they made it in here at all sight unseen.]
Oh? But I'm not the one who needs to worry about making noise . . .
[He purrs it out as he leans forward, nuzzling eagerly against the line of Astarion's still-clothed prick. He's so intimately aware of just how close others are, and every reminder (a sharp bark of laughter, a loud cry for another round) only makes his pulse leap more. Stay quiet, and he will, he will (he'll do anything Astarion tells him to), but oh, gods, if there isn't some part of him aching to be caught. Thrilling in the thought of that door bursting open and gods-only-know how many sets of eyes drinking in the sight of him on his knees, his tongue pressed down flat beneath the weight of a heavy cock and his throat bulging with the effort, his own prick drizzling down vulgar droplets of precome that go neglected but not unnoticed . . .
And none of them allowed to do anything but long to touch.
But he'll be good. He'll be anything Astarion wants so long as he gets what he's aching for. His eyes stay locked upright as he catches thin leather ties between his teeth, tugging and pulling until fabric parts with obedient grace. From there he leans in, nosing and mouthing eagerly at bare skin, idle kisses a chaste preview as his hands blindly taking over the work of tugging those slacks down low on Astarion's hips and prying his cock free.]
You cannot tell me some part of you isn't aching for us to be caught.
[He murmurs it with a little grin before he leans in and exhales hotly against the jutting hang of Astarion's prick. And from there, one long, lurid lick, his tongue sliding from crown to root in blatant tease.]
Aching is the right word.... [Astarion wryly manages to puff out somewhere in the midst of his own unraveling, caught squarely in the crosshairs of a young thing with no scrap of inhibition left to his own name. Nothing so chaste as Leto imagines involved in the friction of this trade, where even idle heat strikes hard as flint for the view that it affords: a pornographic show sloped downwards in dark shadows, and tucked hungrily between his legs— his own hard avarice run thick before a pair of gold-green eyes that glitter in their focus. Their dazzling demand for his approval too mesmerizing to look away from.
Doubly so during that first maddening lick.]
—Hells—
[He grits again as if caught beneath the weight of some great hardship; shoulders knocking back against that shelf for one more beat before his fingers twist in silver hair. Nothing tempered so much as tamped down on by force. Counterbalance and anchor to how he can't resist canting into contact, albeit slow. Steady.
A searching hunt for the deep flat of Leto's scalding tongue.]
[It's a coaxing thing, that slow rock of Astarion's hips. A gradual but insistent push that bids Leto's tongue to flatten and his lips to part in a vulgar kiss, the soft heat of his mouth meeting searing velvet for a precious few seconds before the blunt head of his cock pushes in further. Open for me, and Leto does and doesn't obey that implicit command: instead opting to let his tongue loll out and offer a few more inches for that heavy weight to glide along.
Slow. Steady. Vulgar, the way they draw this out: slick sounds drifting from Leto's mouth to Astarion's ears as his vampire offers him a preview of what's to come. Don't you remember how much you like this, don't you want it, and he does, he does: his cock already straining at his trousers and his cheeks flushed with desire, all of him so content to be slowly used.
And he'd look the picture of an obedient consort, young and kittenish and submissive, if not for the playfulness glittering in his eyes. He'll be quiet, oh yes. He'll be good. He'll do exactly as he's told, but Astarion cannot expect him not to tease when they're indulging like this.]
Hm? What was that?
[Leashing strands of spit and precome connect his lips to Astarion's crown as Leto draws back just far enough to speak. But before his mate can protest, he leans forward again: wrapping his lips tight around the crown of his cock, his tongue flicking forward as his cheeks go hollow. Again and again the tip of his tongue teases at his slit, every slow flick and experimental lap offered as if they've never done this before— and all the while, he doesn't allow his cock to sink any deeper, not yet.
Astarion taught him so much about savoring pleasure, after all, whether it comes out of a bottle of wine or as the result of their bodies intertwined. Patience, little consort, and it's his own fault if that comes back to bite him now.
Again Leto draws back, his tongue lolling out and his cheeks flushed: a cock-hungry little slut finally getting his treat. Again his eyes glitter, a little smirk curling around the edges of his lips despite himself.]
Careful. If you're not quiet, inamorato, someone will hear us . . . learn to control yourself better, or you'll be both our ruin.
[Teased and taunted as he ducks his head forward again, lips wrapping around the head of his cock and tongue working against Astarion's slit, rubbing and lapping as he continues his ruinous temptation.]
[It's hard to know where obedience's dogged outline ends and the ambrosial kiss of liquor begins. Never mind if there's even a difference to begin with. Something that might distinguish what wild arousal has to its name in the hopes of setting itself apart from the warmer heat that smoulders now with each obeisant little bob of Leto's downturned head and diligently upturned stare. Not a speck of lyrium in sight to speak of, and yet he glows through all that work. Looks the part of a kittenish soubrette regardless.
Little more than a pair of wet lips and hollowed cheeks audibly vying for attention from the worst aspects of his mate, begging to be fed across his knees or raised up to be mounted: everything that lies in shadow, panting with the basin of an overcrowded chest. Saddled with the tender burden of fixation and not a shred of fullness yet in sight.
....Or at least, not the way it could be.]
This from the little beast that can't stop filling up his throat. [Is all he finds his way to hissing through set jaws and clenched fangs, brushing past the tenser prickle of their jutting edges against the lining of his own soft mouth. Digging in like spurs, and it's a miracle he hasn't buckled to it like the bite of too tight tack across his sides. A flare of love too violent for its mooring; a restlessness that borders on dangerous when his knuckles cinch and his eyes run blacker than the lightless corners of that room.
Unfair, he thinks— or some part of him does, anyway, small and slipped in as an island in a vulgar sea.
Unfair, made palpable in how he locks the root of his shoulder and its accompanying grip, pulling against the grain to deepen every thrust— an urgent, urging rhythm.]
Make yourself useful, then.
[Oh, that first hardened plunge is cruel when it comes. Punishing and far from languid now, pumping back and forth across the tight stretch from a captive mouth. Once. Twice— ] Because I won't hear a word about this tomorrow when we're discovered for all your wanton mewling.
[A cut-off moan is all that Leto manages before talons knot in his hair and heavy heat pumps deep into the searing, slick stretch of his mouth. His tongue forced flat and his jaw coaxed open, his eyes going from glittering to widened and watering as he fights to keep himself together. Again and again he swallows, fighting to control his breathing— to keep himself from moaning— to relax his throat and take every one of those pistoning thrusts as they mercilessly batter the back of his throat.
Stay quiet, stay quiet, an echoing command ringing in his mind— but it isn't moaning or mewling that's the problem. Rhythmic slick sounds punctuated only occasionally by the occasional gag are only muffled so much behind the thick swell of Astarion's cock; saliva gathers on his lips and drips down his chin, his throat bobbing again and again as he starts to settle into the rhythm. The trick is always not to fight it, and after a fretful few minutes—
Oh, he melts.
Sinking into the steady thrill of having his mouth filled and fucked and used, he gives up any thought of movement save where that tight grip directs him: his head tipped back or urged forward, fingers cruel as they tug on his hair like a leash. His palms lie flat on his thighs, his fingers curling and flexing as he fights the urge to touch himself— but with acceptance comes laxness, and it isn't long before his drunken mind forgets just why it was so important he stay quiet.
So it becomes a pattern: his eyes hooded and dark as a low moan builds in the base of his throat— only to be smothered in the next as his eyes widen, realization crashing through him again and again, the pattern faster and faster as his cock pistons into his mouth.]
[For his own part in this performance, he can't moan. Can't pant louder than the muffled blare of mummer's music wafting steadily from the tavern's crowded belly, something far less roaring than what he'd hoped for at this hour. Can't lift his voice past an enriched murmur and can't— once his weighted breadth finds its way once more to wedging past the tight foreswell of Leto's waiting throat— resign his voice to such a muted level without breaking on his own restraint. His paleknuckled inhibitions.
What little scraps of both he has left to him.
And for a while it's only that: the naked definition of use sprawled out savagely in both directions— wearing the guise of everything that Leto's besotted thoughts dictate— here, another night in Baldur's Gate like any other. Here, another lightless patron submerged within sequestered space, ravaging the hollow stretch that lust's afforded. Willing and waiting for the bruises on bent knees to form, and closer to it now that the pace becomes expansive. Fisted hold no longer guiding, or toying, or teasing— (oh, the view was beautiful while it lasted: those lidded eyes transparently transmitting each attempt to slacken, to swallow, to soften up like overwarmed sugar for the thrusts that took him over) but Astarion's prey drive's drawn to this more keenly— craves the pornographic, sloppy pop of satisfaction smeared across swollen lips when he daggers in too rapidly for mortal eyes to track.
Yet not too rapidly to feel.
Quick heat. Rolling pulsations of vibration that converge and rattle outwards. The way it feels to fuck into that doting mouth with all the seasoned urgency of mounting it. As if they were under the table still, and he were a coarser thing than what he truly is, winning at their wicked game and taking his payment with a hiked leg and a hand wrapped tight around the back of Leto's neck.
As things are, he's just a vampire in need, and the itch that he can't scratch is buried deep.
There's no reprieve. No pause. No moment where a mortal might need to catch his breath or regain stamina, oh, no— there's just desperate little moments, few and far between, where Astarion's hips slow their pace and it's all Leto can do to steal a shallow breath. Heavy heat finds tight, slick places and forces them open again and again, brutally claiming his throat and mounting it like a piston, like a toy, gliding hotly over his tongue and sadistic in its endless rapidfire rhythm. Drool patters down his chin; his lips are red and swollen as he tightens them again and again, cheeks hollow as he sucks so greedily at his treat.
And oh, the noise of it— moans suppressed and swallowed only means that the humiliatingly slick sounds of his mouth being mounted are amplified and emphasized, the noises so much more vulgar in the relative silence of this space. Sloppy suckling and desperate gulps echo in his ears (and how loud are they? can they hear outside?) with only the occasional gag serving as reminder that he isn't perfect at this just yet. Poor little pup, patronizing words cooed down at him from glittering fangs, and it doesn't matter if Astarion says it or he imagines it, for Leto's eyes roll back all the same.
And it's everything he wanted. Everything his greedy little mind longed for. It's humiliating degradation and filthy satisfaction, Astarion using him as though he's little more than slick, obedient hole there to be fucked and bred and used until he's stuffed so full of come that he ends up drooling it. Again and again his eyes dart towards the door, his heart thundering in his ears each time a voice comes close, only to shudder in paradoxical relief and disappointment when no one seems to notice.
(Greedy whelp. Needy little slut, too drunk and addled to remember what's good for him, fed so well and yet somehow longing for more still— oh, they're so very alike).
Fabric catches against stray splinters as his thighs spread open wider. His cock is straining at his pants, untouched and slick enough to soak into fabric; he lifts up just far enough that his hips can rock minutely, eagerly, jerking little motions that try their best to follow whatever rhythm Astarion sets. Like that, like that, his back arching and his eyes rolling back as if he's being mounted from both ends— as if he can feel that hammering force fucking up into him, splitting him open and impaling him, mounting him like the barroom whore he's half-fantasizing he is.
Until at last he can't stand it anymore— his hands finally fumbling towards the fastenings of his pants, fumbling as he unlaces himself. His cock springs out, drooling and dripping onto the floor; with a low moan he tries to catch Astarion's eye, silently begging for permission as he wraps his fingers tight around himself.]
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.]
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no subject
Need I strictly use the word meow, or am I permitted to allude to the beast itself and all-or-all its granted noises?
no subject
[Mmmph, and there's a little moment of confusion as Astarion tries to scuff against his lips and Leto tries to nip at them again, resulting mostly in a bit of dampness and a light scratch instead of anything sensual, but whatever, moving on.]
For you, seductive thing, I challenge you to just the limitation. But if you want to take the easy way out, I'll accept the latter. For you.
[Isn't he such a lovely boyfriend? Isn't he doting? Isn't he trying to nip at those fingers again, oh, yes, he is, and to a bit of a mixed success, but it's fine. If anyone can handle a slightly-harder-than-meant bite, it's Astarion.]
no subject
Helpfully, he does.]
Little barnyard kitten, let me take you home and see if I can make you yowl instead of meow with a collar round your pretty neck.
no subject
[Oh gods, he actually doesn't know how to respond to that. Leto blinks once, twice, torn halfway between a sharp bark of laughter (barnyard kitten) and something else (for they play with collars so often, it's not his fault he can't help the association— nor that he's drunk and hot for his darling, especially when his fingers feel so good against his mouth).]
Er—
[No, cover, cover, for the thought of being mercilessly teased for getting increasingly turned on by these lines is just enough to temper him.]
How the hells do you come up with these?
[Nailed it.]
no subject
All of which earns the most daggersharp flash of overlong white teeth from the creature that next hooks its grip under one beautifully striped chin, pulling.]
Once you understand that filth has a fondness for being fairly formulaic, you begin to realize could slot just about anything in and make it work— hah!— provided you say it in the gravitational midst of licking at your chops.
[And to that end:]
Go on, give it a go.
no subject
Er— no, I think not. I, I would not dare to try and step into your— your purview.
[Is that a sentence? Is that how words work? Hang on—]
This is your field— arena— thing, not mine. You do it far better. I'm content to merely listen.
[There we go, that's much more coherent, and also neatly not untrue. The fact that he's a little flustered and knows for a fact he'll sound like an idiot if he tries to say these things is secondary.
(Listen: he loves flirting with Astarion, murmuring filth in his ear or whispering romantic adoration against his moonlit skin— but it's one thing for him to say it in the heat of the moment. Another thing to try and perform.]
no subject
Repeat after me. [Tilts that chin a few degrees higher.]
I like [one coaxing little pause] watching you [and another, low and smouldering] do it more.
no subject
Less content, though, with what he's being told to do. But he'll try . . . and after all, he's flirted with him a thousand times. How much harder can this be?]
I like, [his voice an open imitation of Astarion's smouldering tone,] I like watching you do it more.
[And it's odd, because the words are right. The effort is there. Even the smouldering heat isn't false, but there's something off about it. He's tensed up despite himself, something in him instinctively curdling at the thought of performance. Couple that with a natural slurring of words, and it's . . . fine. Ish.]
Mmm.
[And doesn't Leto know it.]
And you know I am not good at it like this . . .
[Don't judge me.]
no subject
Darling boy. Beloved boy. How could he ever judge you when you sound so enticing?
(When you're you.)]
Fret if you wish, I've no intention of holding you hostage any longer than I already have. [His inhale's gentle. Narrow. Sweet.] But you're more dashing than any of my long-toothed kin or marks combined, and there is no one whose seductions sway me more. The rest belongs with the Silverhands and Jannaths of the world for how irrelevant it is.
I only melt for one voice. One tune.
I can promise you that.
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And he knows without a shred of doubt that none of those marks ever heard anything close to this.]
Astarion . . .
[It's you. It's always you, and his heart aches for the sudden fierce surge of love that swells up within him. In an instant his fluster has melted away, though all the searing heat in his gaze lingers.]
I have never doubted it. Not when you look at me as you look at no other . . . not when I see how you light up for the sound of my voice, or melt beneath the press of my fingers.
[Astarion's thumb is cool against his bottom lip, subtle pressure encouraging him to part his lips (and he can't) and unfurl his tongue (and he won't), panting like a whore for his mate's approval. He's drunk enough that he actually considers it (the half-formed fantasy so clearly written in the way his lips part, desire growing in his gaze—)
But no. Leto tips his head forward, his lips curling up into more of a smirk.]
Not when even the sight of me asleep is enough to rile you some nights, so that I wake up sore and overfull and satisfied without a single memory as to why.
[Oh, now he's getting into it, for this is him, not some attempt at a line. His eyes flick towards the bartender, but no one is listening to them right now.]
And certainly not when it's been a long day and we're fighting, and suddenly you give me that look. The one that says you want nothing more than to shove a gag smeared with aphrodisiacs into my mouth and strap me to some machine, watching as I'm fucked for hours on end until the only thing I remember how to do is moan out your name and try and beg you for a single finger . . .
Shall I go on? How was that, Astarion? If it isn't up to par . . . keep me captive. Tell me what to say.
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The mild tension pushed against his inseam jerks. Threatens to stiffen in a setting that hasn't noticed yet the sort of mischief they're imbibing with their play, but would certainly begin to take offense if he shifted his partner to the floor and started mouthfucking him at ale-height in plain view.
This isn't the damned Flophouse, after all.]
....are you religious, my darling? [Smoothly slides the soft pad of a clawed thumb back around the edge of Leto's lips, dragging slick.]
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[It takes every ounce of willpower for him not to moan like a bitch in heat for the slow, slick slide of Astarion's thumb. Yes please yes, and it comes out in other ways: his mouth parting ever so slightly as his head tips down just far enough to suggest that he wants nothing so much as to take that sinful digit between his lips.]
You will not find me in any temple . . . but ask me to worship your cock and I'll become more devoted than any acolyte. [His head tips, his lips wrapping for the briefest moment around the swell of his thumb.] I'll drop to my knees and offer you as many prayers as it takes to earn your favor, until you deign to release me from your service . . .
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And the setting doesn't matter. It could be this floor (any floor), this bar (any bar)— fully clothed or wrapped in biting air— Astarion licks his hungry teeth for it all in the absolute present, craning closer like a serpent at Leto's ears to whisper:]
You should.
[A hiss. An unslaked rumble, melting into lightless contours.]
Because tonight I plan on bending you backwards until you find your god.
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[A moan slips from his lips into Astarion's waiting ear, the noise low and overheated and hungry. Drunk as he is, enthralled as he is, he forgets the game. He forgets that Astarion is meant to be feeding him lines so they can laugh over their absurdity; he forgets where they are and why they aren't doing more than just talking.]
Is that a promise?
[Purred out as he draws back, moving just far enough to tip his head and steal a swift kiss. At the same his hand slips beneath the table, fingers caressing slowly up Astarion's thigh. Clever fingertips trace their way up the lean line of muscle, his smirk only growing as he feels familiar stiff heat.]
Why wait until tonight? You could have me on my knees right now— and I'll show you just how devoted I truly am . . .
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Far hotter inclinations.
He fits strong fingers over Leto's own under the table.]
....is that a line, or do you mean it?
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[Oh, he does. He does, wholeheartedly and blissfully uninhibited, his cheeks flushed with eagerness and a youthful sort of recklessness. And though there's some small part of him crying out in alarm, oh, who cares? Perhaps they'll be noticed, but no matter what Leto tells himself, there's no one at any inn they ever stay at who doesn't know what they get up to on a nightly basis, and what's a few people more? It's a bar in a city full of millions of souls— and anyway, don't they deserve to live a little?
There's no harm. This isn't Thedas, where two elves caught rutting might bring salacious ruin upon their heads. This isn't Kirkwall, where everyone knows who he is and what he stands for, the Blue Wraith a symbol of terrified justice. He's just an adolescent moon elf here, drunk and in love, and though he has responsibilities here, duties here, things that he aims for and works towards— hells, why not act his age?
His hand strains at Astarion's grip, emerald eyes locking on darkened crimson. And drunk though he is, uninhibited though he is, there's no mistaking the consent in his gaze.
Nor the heat curling in his voice as he slyly adds:]
Are you going to make me beg for it?
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The way their knuckles catch against each other for how tight they've intertwined. And though the term white-knuckled loses its bite as a descriptor when one's pallor needs only a minimal adjustment of a few letters to attest to possessed lightlessness itself, he can feel the duller ache of lacework tension flaring on and off beneath his skin. The way Leto's coiled muscle longs to work— and the way Astarion's longs to let him.
There is no harm, after all. Not really. Not truly. Just the nuisance of being asked to take it outside if the barkeep prefers decency, and from there, the substantially more aggravating bother of any patrons mistaking two intimately besotted elves for an invitation to join. Problems Astarion has versed experience in handling.
But he knows Leto's pride.
Tonight he'd gladly revel in debauchery. Tomorrow, he'd bemoan it eternally, and there'd be no end to that dismay. In other words: a modicum of privacy's required for their game of chase to continue onwards.
Which is how they wind up in the dark of a storeroom closet wedged in tight in every sense but the most lurid, as luck would have it: his back to flaccid shelving whose slatting bows when he leans back against its edge (how cheap does wood have to be to actually bend under pressure?) rickety door swaying back and forth in a position that only qualifies as shut owing to a section of thin twine wrapped around its knob. There are buckets on the floor and casks stacked behind broomsticks, which leaves so little room that it's a bloody miracle Leto has room to kneel— let alone tug open Astarion's finely tailored slacks.]
Easy— shh— [Is a coaxing murmur quickly bordering on a throaty chuckle, fingers coursing back across Leto's scalp once— twice— attempting to sooth some of that overly eager exolution.] If you're not quiet little wolf cub, someone will hear us.
[And gods, drunk as they are, it's a wonder they made it in here at all sight unseen.]
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[He purrs it out as he leans forward, nuzzling eagerly against the line of Astarion's still-clothed prick. He's so intimately aware of just how close others are, and every reminder (a sharp bark of laughter, a loud cry for another round) only makes his pulse leap more. Stay quiet, and he will, he will (he'll do anything Astarion tells him to), but oh, gods, if there isn't some part of him aching to be caught. Thrilling in the thought of that door bursting open and gods-only-know how many sets of eyes drinking in the sight of him on his knees, his tongue pressed down flat beneath the weight of a heavy cock and his throat bulging with the effort, his own prick drizzling down vulgar droplets of precome that go neglected but not unnoticed . . .
And none of them allowed to do anything but long to touch.
But he'll be good. He'll be anything Astarion wants so long as he gets what he's aching for. His eyes stay locked upright as he catches thin leather ties between his teeth, tugging and pulling until fabric parts with obedient grace. From there he leans in, nosing and mouthing eagerly at bare skin, idle kisses a chaste preview as his hands blindly taking over the work of tugging those slacks down low on Astarion's hips and prying his cock free.]
You cannot tell me some part of you isn't aching for us to be caught.
[He murmurs it with a little grin before he leans in and exhales hotly against the jutting hang of Astarion's prick. And from there, one long, lurid lick, his tongue sliding from crown to root in blatant tease.]
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Doubly so during that first maddening lick.]
—Hells—
[He grits again as if caught beneath the weight of some great hardship; shoulders knocking back against that shelf for one more beat before his fingers twist in silver hair. Nothing tempered so much as tamped down on by force. Counterbalance and anchor to how he can't resist canting into contact, albeit slow. Steady.
A searching hunt for the deep flat of Leto's scalding tongue.]
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Slow. Steady. Vulgar, the way they draw this out: slick sounds drifting from Leto's mouth to Astarion's ears as his vampire offers him a preview of what's to come. Don't you remember how much you like this, don't you want it, and he does, he does: his cock already straining at his trousers and his cheeks flushed with desire, all of him so content to be slowly used.
And he'd look the picture of an obedient consort, young and kittenish and submissive, if not for the playfulness glittering in his eyes. He'll be quiet, oh yes. He'll be good. He'll do exactly as he's told, but Astarion cannot expect him not to tease when they're indulging like this.]
Hm? What was that?
[Leashing strands of spit and precome connect his lips to Astarion's crown as Leto draws back just far enough to speak. But before his mate can protest, he leans forward again: wrapping his lips tight around the crown of his cock, his tongue flicking forward as his cheeks go hollow. Again and again the tip of his tongue teases at his slit, every slow flick and experimental lap offered as if they've never done this before— and all the while, he doesn't allow his cock to sink any deeper, not yet.
Astarion taught him so much about savoring pleasure, after all, whether it comes out of a bottle of wine or as the result of their bodies intertwined. Patience, little consort, and it's his own fault if that comes back to bite him now.
Again Leto draws back, his tongue lolling out and his cheeks flushed: a cock-hungry little slut finally getting his treat. Again his eyes glitter, a little smirk curling around the edges of his lips despite himself.]
Careful. If you're not quiet, inamorato, someone will hear us . . . learn to control yourself better, or you'll be both our ruin.
[Teased and taunted as he ducks his head forward again, lips wrapping around the head of his cock and tongue working against Astarion's slit, rubbing and lapping as he continues his ruinous temptation.]
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Little more than a pair of wet lips and hollowed cheeks audibly vying for attention from the worst aspects of his mate, begging to be fed across his knees or raised up to be mounted: everything that lies in shadow, panting with the basin of an overcrowded chest. Saddled with the tender burden of fixation and not a shred of fullness yet in sight.
....Or at least, not the way it could be.]
This from the little beast that can't stop filling up his throat. [Is all he finds his way to hissing through set jaws and clenched fangs, brushing past the tenser prickle of their jutting edges against the lining of his own soft mouth. Digging in like spurs, and it's a miracle he hasn't buckled to it like the bite of too tight tack across his sides. A flare of love too violent for its mooring; a restlessness that borders on dangerous when his knuckles cinch and his eyes run blacker than the lightless corners of that room.
Unfair, he thinks— or some part of him does, anyway, small and slipped in as an island in a vulgar sea.
Unfair, made palpable in how he locks the root of his shoulder and its accompanying grip, pulling against the grain to deepen every thrust— an urgent, urging rhythm.]
Make yourself useful, then.
[Oh, that first hardened plunge is cruel when it comes. Punishing and far from languid now, pumping back and forth across the tight stretch from a captive mouth. Once. Twice— ] Because I won't hear a word about this tomorrow when we're discovered for all your wanton mewling.
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[A cut-off moan is all that Leto manages before talons knot in his hair and heavy heat pumps deep into the searing, slick stretch of his mouth. His tongue forced flat and his jaw coaxed open, his eyes going from glittering to widened and watering as he fights to keep himself together. Again and again he swallows, fighting to control his breathing— to keep himself from moaning— to relax his throat and take every one of those pistoning thrusts as they mercilessly batter the back of his throat.
Stay quiet, stay quiet, an echoing command ringing in his mind— but it isn't moaning or mewling that's the problem. Rhythmic slick sounds punctuated only occasionally by the occasional gag are only muffled so much behind the thick swell of Astarion's cock; saliva gathers on his lips and drips down his chin, his throat bobbing again and again as he starts to settle into the rhythm. The trick is always not to fight it, and after a fretful few minutes—
Oh, he melts.
Sinking into the steady thrill of having his mouth filled and fucked and used, he gives up any thought of movement save where that tight grip directs him: his head tipped back or urged forward, fingers cruel as they tug on his hair like a leash. His palms lie flat on his thighs, his fingers curling and flexing as he fights the urge to touch himself— but with acceptance comes laxness, and it isn't long before his drunken mind forgets just why it was so important he stay quiet.
So it becomes a pattern: his eyes hooded and dark as a low moan builds in the base of his throat— only to be smothered in the next as his eyes widen, realization crashing through him again and again, the pattern faster and faster as his cock pistons into his mouth.]
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What little scraps of both he has left to him.
And for a while it's only that: the naked definition of use sprawled out savagely in both directions— wearing the guise of everything that Leto's besotted thoughts dictate— here, another night in Baldur's Gate like any other. Here, another lightless patron submerged within sequestered space, ravaging the hollow stretch that lust's afforded. Willing and waiting for the bruises on bent knees to form, and closer to it now that the pace becomes expansive. Fisted hold no longer guiding, or toying, or teasing— (oh, the view was beautiful while it lasted: those lidded eyes transparently transmitting each attempt to slacken, to swallow, to soften up like overwarmed sugar for the thrusts that took him over) but Astarion's prey drive's drawn to this more keenly— craves the pornographic, sloppy pop of satisfaction smeared across swollen lips when he daggers in too rapidly for mortal eyes to track.
Yet not too rapidly to feel.
Quick heat. Rolling pulsations of vibration that converge and rattle outwards. The way it feels to fuck into that doting mouth with all the seasoned urgency of mounting it. As if they were under the table still, and he were a coarser thing than what he truly is, winning at their wicked game and taking his payment with a hiked leg and a hand wrapped tight around the back of Leto's neck.
As things are, he's just a vampire in need, and the itch that he can't scratch is buried deep.
But maybe they're alike in that.]
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It's relentless.
There's no reprieve. No pause. No moment where a mortal might need to catch his breath or regain stamina, oh, no— there's just desperate little moments, few and far between, where Astarion's hips slow their pace and it's all Leto can do to steal a shallow breath. Heavy heat finds tight, slick places and forces them open again and again, brutally claiming his throat and mounting it like a piston, like a toy, gliding hotly over his tongue and sadistic in its endless rapidfire rhythm. Drool patters down his chin; his lips are red and swollen as he tightens them again and again, cheeks hollow as he sucks so greedily at his treat.
And oh, the noise of it— moans suppressed and swallowed only means that the humiliatingly slick sounds of his mouth being mounted are amplified and emphasized, the noises so much more vulgar in the relative silence of this space. Sloppy suckling and desperate gulps echo in his ears (and how loud are they? can they hear outside?) with only the occasional gag serving as reminder that he isn't perfect at this just yet. Poor little pup, patronizing words cooed down at him from glittering fangs, and it doesn't matter if Astarion says it or he imagines it, for Leto's eyes roll back all the same.
And it's everything he wanted. Everything his greedy little mind longed for. It's humiliating degradation and filthy satisfaction, Astarion using him as though he's little more than slick, obedient hole there to be fucked and bred and used until he's stuffed so full of come that he ends up drooling it. Again and again his eyes dart towards the door, his heart thundering in his ears each time a voice comes close, only to shudder in paradoxical relief and disappointment when no one seems to notice.
(Greedy whelp. Needy little slut, too drunk and addled to remember what's good for him, fed so well and yet somehow longing for more still— oh, they're so very alike).
Fabric catches against stray splinters as his thighs spread open wider. His cock is straining at his pants, untouched and slick enough to soak into fabric; he lifts up just far enough that his hips can rock minutely, eagerly, jerking little motions that try their best to follow whatever rhythm Astarion sets. Like that, like that, his back arching and his eyes rolling back as if he's being mounted from both ends— as if he can feel that hammering force fucking up into him, splitting him open and impaling him, mounting him like the barroom whore he's half-fantasizing he is.
Until at last he can't stand it anymore— his hands finally fumbling towards the fastenings of his pants, fumbling as he unlaces himself. His cock springs out, drooling and dripping onto the floor; with a low moan he tries to catch Astarion's eye, silently begging for permission as he wraps his fingers tight around himself.]
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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.
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