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.]
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.]
[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.
[Astarion means it, Leto thinks distantly. It's never just filthy talk, not when it comes to vampiric stamina and desire; no matter how his lover adores exaggerating, Leto would be a fool not to think there's a part of him that means it. Broken in till sunrise, a promise dripping in lust— and as velvet heat pushes coaxingly against his lips, Leto shudders, for all that stubborn pride is suddenly drowning in a crushing wave of intoxicated heat.
Those words evoke so many memories, after all— and now his mind races with filth (for he knows what it is to be impaled and rutted and bred for hours on end, stars dancing in his eyes as his mouth is fucked relentlessly, his tongue suppressed and his throat penetrated to the point of swelling, gagging thrill— used until he's so far past the point of I can't and over the horizon into being little more than wet hole for Astarion to fuck, docile and grateful for the gushes of come dripping down his chin and spilling over his thighs).
How well Astarion knows him, that he knows damn well what memories he triggers with that filthy phrase.
Clever thing.]
Please—
[His voice is slurred, the velvet head of Astarion's cock pushing so insistently against his lips. Hungry as a lover's kiss and welcomed just as eagerly: Leto mouths at every slow push even as his body shakes from the strain of holding this position. Drawn upright and yet still kept pinned thanks to that steady pressure against his cock, and all the while so intent on being good.]
Can I— will you—
[And in the end, his eyes flick away and then back, unable to stay locked with the predatory, patient gaze above him as he speaks.]
Please, will you fuck me?
[Do better, his heart thundering and his normally steady voice now halting.]
I want— [no] will, will you fuck my mouth? Will you please— please use me until you come down my throat— until I am dripping it, drooling it— until I can remember nothing but the taste of you, until I learn to crave n-nothing but the weight of your cock against my tongue and plunging into my throat? Will you, [mmph] will you fuck me from behind against the wall— until I cannot remember what it is to not be impaled on your cock, until I am marked and used and yours— please, will you?
[Oh, it's almost too much. There's a ringing in his ears, a high-pitched whine that echoes as he stumbles through this humiliating request. There's still people near, and suddenly that's as terrifying as it is thrilling: a shock to his system that has him panting as he realizes how many people might overhear.
But that isn't the hardest part, no, and he swallows thickly, trying to summon his courage to continue.]
And . . .
[Deep breath, little pup.]
Will you let me— [ah, another imperceptible twitch of his hips, his cock nudging against Astarion's sole,] let me touch myself throughout all that, u-until I come too?
[It's never just talk, no. Not even drunk. Not even at the edges of himself, submerged beneath hours upon upended hours of hot sips of bitter wine. Fragrant ale. The latter brooking so much lateral movement that he feels voyeuristic in this moment, gazing down at the pretty thing between his legs— a tertiary factor in a vulgar scene that'd go on no matter what they think, because there's only one thing roaring harsh inside their skulls. Only one desire when the rest have been devoured— swallowed whole— pretty things made ugly in just the right way, too palatable to resist, now. Like: words a buckish thing would never groan otherwise beyond this shuttered closet. Like: the smothered smear of consonants humming before they pop beneath the glaze of well-spent spittle mixed with precome. Like: the profane act of submission intertangled with demand— not a question of give me this with a knifesharp edge and a cruel candor, but the negotiation that comes crawling in split-lipped and hungry. Give me this, and I'll give you more than anyone will ever know save us.]
Mmnh.
[It's not an answer so much as an assent, the groan that crawls its way out of the hollow of his throat in the second that he lifts his heel, easing off. Ebbing for a moment into coarser shadows that obscure what he can't feel, nudging with the raised toe of his boot to slide tattooed fingers back into their place; letting himself card lower then, under the unlatched map of opened slacks— spurring his companion on towards the wicked work of touch alone.
[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?]
[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—
It's a fleeting thought gasped out in the last teetering seconds between mounting pressure and overwhelming rapture. Astarion's hips buck, every thrust forcing Leto into offering the most vulgar kind of kiss, thick heat wedging itself so deep that he swears he can feel the bulge in his throat. Fingers knot in his hair and keep him from straying, urging him into accepting every pumping thrust and goading rock, scolding him for needing air—
Until at last he gets his reward.
Leto moans as he feels Astarion come down his throat, the noise smothered and reduced to an endless purring vibration as pulse after pulse gushes down into him. The most vulgar treat gulped down sloppily, eagerly, as his own arousal falls by the wayside. His cock is stiff and dripping, but his grip on himself is loose, his own pleasure utterly secondary compared to the bliss of this: being used to the point of completion. Being fucked and rut into and bred like little more than slick hole, his worth proven by his ability to take.
He swallows in rhythmic obedience, his cheeks hollow as he suckles every last drop he can, until at last it slows. Astarion's cock draws back inch by slickened, pearl-streaked inch, emerging from his throat and slipping past his lips with a filthy pop. And with come coating his tongue and dripping down his chin, Leto surges up, crashing into Astarion and tipping his head to catch him in a filthy, demanding kiss. His tongue pushes forward insistently, one hand wrapping tight around the back of Astarion's neck as he claims his mouth fervently again and again. He's shaking with adrenaline and arousal both— and when he finally pulls back, come smeared over both their lips, there's nothing but dark, molten satisfaction in his voice as he rumbles:]
Well? Did I show you just how devoted I am to you? Or . . .
[His hand slips between them, his fingers wrapping around Astarion's slick length and pumping slowly, his voice sinfully sweet and his eyes dark as anything.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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.
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
Those words evoke so many memories, after all— and now his mind races with filth (for he knows what it is to be impaled and rutted and bred for hours on end, stars dancing in his eyes as his mouth is fucked relentlessly, his tongue suppressed and his throat penetrated to the point of swelling, gagging thrill— used until he's so far past the point of I can't and over the horizon into being little more than wet hole for Astarion to fuck, docile and grateful for the gushes of come dripping down his chin and spilling over his thighs).
How well Astarion knows him, that he knows damn well what memories he triggers with that filthy phrase.
Clever thing.]
Please—
[His voice is slurred, the velvet head of Astarion's cock pushing so insistently against his lips. Hungry as a lover's kiss and welcomed just as eagerly: Leto mouths at every slow push even as his body shakes from the strain of holding this position. Drawn upright and yet still kept pinned thanks to that steady pressure against his cock, and all the while so intent on being good.]
Can I— will you—
[And in the end, his eyes flick away and then back, unable to stay locked with the predatory, patient gaze above him as he speaks.]
Please, will you fuck me?
[Do better, his heart thundering and his normally steady voice now halting.]
I want— [no] will, will you fuck my mouth? Will you please— please use me until you come down my throat— until I am dripping it, drooling it— until I can remember nothing but the taste of you, until I learn to crave n-nothing but the weight of your cock against my tongue and plunging into my throat? Will you, [mmph] will you fuck me from behind against the wall— until I cannot remember what it is to not be impaled on your cock, until I am marked and used and yours— please, will you?
[Oh, it's almost too much. There's a ringing in his ears, a high-pitched whine that echoes as he stumbles through this humiliating request. There's still people near, and suddenly that's as terrifying as it is thrilling: a shock to his system that has him panting as he realizes how many people might overhear.
But that isn't the hardest part, no, and he swallows thickly, trying to summon his courage to continue.]
And . . .
[Deep breath, little pup.]
Will you let me— [ah, another imperceptible twitch of his hips, his cock nudging against Astarion's sole,] let me touch myself throughout all that, u-until I come too?
no subject
Mmnh.
[It's not an answer so much as an assent, the groan that crawls its way out of the hollow of his throat in the second that he lifts his heel, easing off. Ebbing for a moment into coarser shadows that obscure what he can't feel, nudging with the raised toe of his boot to slide tattooed fingers back into their place; letting himself card lower then, under the unlatched map of opened slacks— spurring his companion on towards the wicked work of touch alone.
....and taste.]
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?]
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.]
no subject
It's a fleeting thought gasped out in the last teetering seconds between mounting pressure and overwhelming rapture. Astarion's hips buck, every thrust forcing Leto into offering the most vulgar kind of kiss, thick heat wedging itself so deep that he swears he can feel the bulge in his throat. Fingers knot in his hair and keep him from straying, urging him into accepting every pumping thrust and goading rock, scolding him for needing air—
Until at last he gets his reward.
Leto moans as he feels Astarion come down his throat, the noise smothered and reduced to an endless purring vibration as pulse after pulse gushes down into him. The most vulgar treat gulped down sloppily, eagerly, as his own arousal falls by the wayside. His cock is stiff and dripping, but his grip on himself is loose, his own pleasure utterly secondary compared to the bliss of this: being used to the point of completion. Being fucked and rut into and bred like little more than slick hole, his worth proven by his ability to take.
He swallows in rhythmic obedience, his cheeks hollow as he suckles every last drop he can, until at last it slows. Astarion's cock draws back inch by slickened, pearl-streaked inch, emerging from his throat and slipping past his lips with a filthy pop. And with come coating his tongue and dripping down his chin, Leto surges up, crashing into Astarion and tipping his head to catch him in a filthy, demanding kiss. His tongue pushes forward insistently, one hand wrapping tight around the back of Astarion's neck as he claims his mouth fervently again and again. He's shaking with adrenaline and arousal both— and when he finally pulls back, come smeared over both their lips, there's nothing but dark, molten satisfaction in his voice as he rumbles:]
Well? Did I show you just how devoted I am to you? Or . . .
[His hand slips between them, his fingers wrapping around Astarion's slick length and pumping slowly, his voice sinfully sweet and his eyes dark as anything.]
Do I need to try again?