Tʜᴇ Pᴀʟᴇ Eʟғ | Asᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ Aɴᴄᴜɴíɴ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
INBOX II
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Dream or reality or some tangled mixture of the two (ah, no, Astarion is here, all right. Gods know he has to be, there's too much bite to the rocky earth digging into him through a plush bedroll and tent canvas alike, too much life bursting through the enriched flavor slicked across his tongue and open mouth— ) there's nothing that would alter the path of his determination anymore: his mate half-dressed in all the ways that work towards obscenity rather than anything as trite as function, his picturesque tanned legs pinned up at wanton angles, none of them something that lithe form could manage without crude support or the sheer vulgarity of demand. A hand holding him here, a leg pushed up against him there. An arched back and a ragged set of breaths and the lay of his spent cock across his belly, begging to be filled instead of merely fed.
Bliss isn't enough anymore.
Not these days, not when Leto is— as he'd insisted on at the start of this exchange— so deeply accustomed to the intensity they enact night after night after night. The point was to break that cycle for a time. To drive a thrill back into the act of feeling Astarion's thick measure buried in full between his thighs, teaching tightness how to cede itself to sweet obeisance. Because being shuttered in an inn for their protection didn't make them cautious, it made them prone to indulgence, a habit they indulged more fervently than sleep, than dining or socializing in the confines of that inn suite. Too often invitations came and went with Leto holding his own breath against the coffin borders, speared snug and squirming whilst his toes curled— his own prick squeezed by his trapped weight— and Astarion calling out 'no, but thank you' over the rigid outline of hunched shoulders.
His exhale now is a prelude to untying coarse laces.
It comes before the razored catch of teeth up high, clamped down around soft skin for a second, languid taste.
It comes before he nudges with a slick-edged knuckle, just to find his mark— and pump his prick across that aligned inform till it plunges past resistance— any and all tensity turned to friction's little plaything. An accessory to the way he thrusts in shallow, daggered rhythms— lunging by an inch or two each time, teasing his dear pup with what he wants too dearly to deny. Once— twice— shallow, keep it shallow— a stuttering catch along the rim and he slips out—
—then back again.
Out, and back— out, and back— pale fingers pressed into lover's pretty lips to keep them silent in the moment, his fangs still tethered just to hold him still. Caught prey. Caught heart.
Oh, caught.]
no subject
Don't squirm in growing hunger. Don't raise your hips up in fretful petition to fucked into overstimulated bliss. Don't shake yourself to pieces beneath your husband's grip, no matter how each slow, deliberate dip of Astarion's cock leaves him shivering with want. Don't move, little rabbit, for animal instincts insist that a single wrong movement would spell disaster. The clamp of razor-sharp teeth around his throat keep him still more readily than any bar or tie; soft fingers pressing firm against his tongue keep him hushed and pliant. There's just the sound of his own ragged breathing (and beneath that, the slick noises of their bodies slowly meeting, oil dripping off Astarion's cock and glossing his rim). There's just—
In (swollen heat coaxing him into sweetly spreading open, thick enough to make him taste it without ever once fucking in too deep) and out (a slick exhale as his tongue slides against Astarion's fingers, desperate to do something as he copes with the loss). In (he trembles over every slow, taunting dip; every millimeter, every bump and ridge and catch against his rim amplified until arousal echoes through him in dizzying waves and he has to fight not to groan) and out (he squeezes, clenches, fights to keep his prize, and all of it for naught, for he's left so achingly empty, the air bursting out of his lungs and his body crying for the loss).
Over and over and over, and every pass builds on the last until Leto feels as though he's going to lose his godsdamned mind. Again and again and again, out and back, out and back, the slow rhythm teasing him without ever once sating him. Saliva pools in the back of his mouth as something deep in the pit of his belly jerks for every pass; between them, his cock stiffens and swells, refractory period nigh-nonexistant in this adolescent body.
Another pass. Another slow, shallow rut, Astarion's cock inching in (please yes please) before pulling out again (subatomic whimpers vibrating low in his throat, needy and fitful and heard only by a single person. It's harder to resist the urge to squirm and pant and mewl; it comes out in the way his eyes roll back and his fingers spasm as he grips his husband's shirt. Tighten and release, tighten and release, the rhythm timed to the daggering way Astarion fucks him: out and back, out and back, maddening and thrilling all at once.
His fingers rake through silver curls (you're here, and some part of him still can't believe it, marveling at this miracle); the other slips between them, fingers wrapping around his prick. He times his slow tugs to the rhythm Astarion sets, and oh, gods, it doesn't help, but he couldn't stop if he tried. It doesn't stop him from whining for the loss of Astarion's cock each time, but at least the sparks that roil low in his belly are paltry consolation.]
Astarion—
[A moan and a plea all at once, slurred quietly around the swell of Astarion's fingers. His eyes roll back in the next moment, his thighs shaking as he feels him dip in shallowly— and the problem isn't that it doesn't feel good, but that it does. So searingly good (and yet not enough); good enough that little moans start building behind Astarion's fingers, his slit already slick with precome. Please, please, and at this point it isn't even a plea for more— just not to stop.]
no subject
(So what if they're overheard now?
So what if they're caught?)
It's just for Leto that he's modest in unfettered, guttural desire. For Leto, whom he offers a bit by way of one slow, contrasting kiss compared to the shallower tease of his hips— and if Leto chooses to shunt silence for the secondary presence that it is, Astarion will happily abide.
Because he doesn't need to be asked. The shivers are enough. The way Leto's narrow little entry snaps down hungrily across the prick that drives him open, greedy and voracious to a fault— it's just the plunges when he slicks open like a flower's velvet flesh— just the retreat back outwards when he tightens, fighting to hold onto being claimed by any narrow stretch. The whole of his slim body sings with his desires, and as Astarion's grip hooks beneath each cheek to spread them wider, he indulges in his own beastly response.
Not stopping.
That's where the line is drawn, because to fuck his lover low into the ground like the animal he's said to be in overly alluring superstition would equate to ending this right here, right now. A mounting, breeding game of cat and mouse that lasts as long as the real thing: for feline reflexes are far, far faster than its prey, and snatching it from midair is a simple little thing when all is said and done, and it's been days already since they'd last rut. A whole night's foreplay underneath them won't act as cushion against one handsome adolescent's ruin— only the gravity that brings it on that much sooner.
So: steady. Shallow. Constant. Dips and flicks of daggering attention, at times running opposite to the focus of his mouth, at times in concert with it, but always attending to his mate. Always warming him up further from the inside out, letting him taste his own blood across pale lips; letting him feel his belly burn with delving friction weaving back and forth back and forth— he hunts there for the start of rattling flutters. Muscles quaking as they start to lock and heaving lungs hold fast to air. He seeks out the very prelude to the denoument he loves.
So that when it comes, he can square inhuman hips and rut down with merciless brutality.
That of a beast with blackened eyes.]
no subject
Slick-mouthed screams and jagged cries fill every corner of camp, and yet Leto can't pay them mind, not when he's fighting not to drown right now. Pleasure burns through every inch of his body, devouring him so thoroughly that he can't do anything save writhe in overwhelmed response. Come splatters over his belly as pulse after pulse of orgasm wracks through him— he isn't even touching himself, not anymore, for the steady plunge of Astarion's cock is all the coaxing his own ever needs. It's too much, it's too much, and every savage thrust only sends him deeper, eking out another gasping wave— and another— and all the while there's no pause. No break. Nothing but the unrelenting, cruel slam of his vampire's prick, every thrust stretching him open and forcing him to cede every inch of himself in open-mouthed supplication.
He's deaf to himself (how easily throaty moans and overwrought whines burst past his lips in vulgar time to pistoning hips). Blind to himself (how pretty he looks as he writhes beneath his vampire, every muscle taut and tense, back arching up and hips bucking wildly while his fingers claw for canvas, fabric, flesh, anything, anything that might give him a handhold as he falls to pieces). There's nothing but this, this this this, heavy pressure that impales him over and over with inhuman speed, rewarding him each time with vulgar, hedonistic pleasure—
And it doesn't stop.
Not even as those cries of pleasure turn into sharp barks of dismayed overstimulation; not when every thrust becomes electrifying, lightning lancing through his body at a rate no mortal was designed to withstand. Not when all his writhing turns frantic and sharp talons have to dig in to keep him right where he is. Not when he sucks in enough air to try and beg for mercy (a break, a breath, please) and instead finds himself hoisted up, his legs pinned back even further so that he can watch his own debasement, a heavy prick pumping in and out of his reddened hole.
One hand clumsily shoves over his mouth (belated, so belated, but it must count for something); the other jerks out, fingers splayed— but even if he could remember the words to the spell (and he can't), silence takes concentration, and he has none of that to spare.]
Please—
[His voice is such a desperate thing, the word slick and spat out between breathless moans. Please please please, there's so many things he could be begging for, more and don't and I can't and make me, but no, focus, focus (despite the unrelenting rock and cruel grind of his hips, despite the toe-curling satisfaction of being speared and pinned and kept, despite despite despite— focus).]
T-take, take— [take me fuck me mount me make me your sheathe please please please] — take control—
[Take control.
Normally he'd add to that. Help me be quiet, help me stay silent, for his former magistrate of a husband does so love to find a loophole, especially when the stakes are relatively low. But even those four words were too much; with a spasming jerk he shoves his palm over his mouth once more, muffling the ragged howl that keens in his throat not a moment later.]
no subject
Oh, it's kammarth to stagnant veins already glazed with the raw heat of stolen blood. Astarion can't begin to compete with the wracking shudder that runs through him as if it were some new, exotic form of monstrous overstimulation in response to that outcry— the predator beneath his skin shedding him like the vestige of lost mortality he's always been behind the mask of sanity with all its peeling paint. Of he sort of pointless chaff that instinctive prey drive doesn't give a damn about. Or if not prey drive, survival, then. That savage hierarchy built atop the pillars of feeding, breeding, and violence that Astarion can only shackle at his best, and cedes to at his worst—
The angle is unforgiving already. It's worse when Astarion jumps forward to hitch up along his toes and knees to fold his prone amatus inwards, those strong legs already jammed into tanned shoulders by the time that pressure makes them dig. It closes the gap between cock and belly— makes it cock and chest in half a second— cock and almost chin if the pearly gleam of interwoven orgasms pattering against tattoo marks counts itself as measure. They link together like vulgar lines of jewels within his shadow. Encroach upon those parted, gasping lips. Encroach upon his hand, tense fingers splayed and bloodless under pressure— trickling through gaps.
And in their shadow, bright green eyes eyes, upturned. Unblinking. A pornographic panoply of light (or lack thereof) reflecting in their surface the sordid show of his unmaking, pumping to a merciless, unending rhythm. The animal that doesn't tire. The vampire above him. In him. In. Out. In. Out. Over. Against. The scent of metal in the air. The tang of sweat and bittersweet come. The taste of it as his hands are drawn away and pushed flat against both tent tarp and cool earth, and a falsely heated tongue slips in behind his teeth. Closer. Deeper. Relentless and blinding— but the shadow doesn't hide a drop of what lies underneath. The scene is there, racing through Leto's body like it owns him.
(That savage hierarchy built atop the pillars of feeding, breeding, and violence that Astarion can only shackle at his best, and cedes to at his worst—
—But they're a bonded pair, he and Leto.)]
Look at me.
[A murmur. Rough and growling in that torporic shudder. Darker than the point of no return. Not like the red eyes that glitter in the closed expanse of Leto's tent. Twin embers waiting— half-lidded under pitch lined lashes.
They don't blink.]
Look at me, amatus.
[Dirt grits beneath pale thumbs and pinned wrists. Slim features— the sharp jut of Astarion's fine nose, his vaulted cheekbones, his mouth, his daggered teeth— nose Leto this way and that to keep him focused. To vie for slivers of attention as he's taken with all the fervence of a lowered bitch gasping between spread legs. Curled toes. Not yet filled enough, but panting just the same.
All it should take is a handful of seconds....
....if Leto, denied for days already, can keep his own eyes open for that long.]
no subject
And somewhere along the way, it all blurs into bliss.
Time becomes an illusion, every second and minute and hour turned into nothing more than vague notions. There's only the here and now; there's only this: cool fingers locked around his wrists and the relentlessly steady pump of a heavy prick determined to remind his lithe body where he belongs. It's hypnotic in its rhythm and electrifying in its inexorability, for it never stops. Not when Leto writhes in teetering desperation, fighting against Astarion's grip so that he might touch himself, only to spill over himself untouched a few minutes later. Not when he barks out silent pleas for mercy, tears streaming down his cheeks and his hips shaking as another orgasm wracks through him. Not even when he falters beneath him, tongue lolled out and obscenity worn like a second skin, panting as he spreads his thighs wider and welcomes another searing gush of come spilled into him.
And dreamy-distant as he is, it's details that stand out the most to him. Little bits of sensation registers as they rise above the electrical current that thunders through his veins. Like: how mouth-wateringly fantastic it feels when Astarion finally opts to slow his hips down, going from bouncing Leto in cruel impalement to something languid. His eyes flutter, his mouth dropping open as he moans in silent approval of the way Astarion languidly shuttles his cock in and out, in and out, letting his husband feel every inch of what he's been missing.
Or: the way it feels to come on himself. The way he burns with humiliation the first time it happens— not just for the way come trickles down his cheek and over the backs of his fingers, but for how it makes his eyes roll back as he writhes in overstimulated climax. And then, later, how he melts for it: bitter droplets dripping to the back of his throat as he pants through open lips, pearl glinting against tanned skin like a pornographic echo of the markings he once bore— though his lyrium was never smeared over the bridge of his nose or splashed carelessly along his cheek.
Or even just: the way it feels to come. Orgasms wracking through his body over and over and over— for all his body can do in this youthswept body is greedily beg for more to gorge himself upon. Somewhere in the midst of all that breeding he loses track of how often he comes— six times? Seven? Ten? A chain of them are strung like beads along a taut wire, and how Astarion loves to pluck it, each sadistic thrum earning another silent scream. He's drooling, saliva slick against his chin; he's crying, pain and pleasure so blinding that he's reduced to nothing but rawest instincts. Twice Astarion manages to pry a chained orgasm from him, scarlet eyes glittering in satisfaction as Leto's eyes roll back and his hips buck wildly, only to howl silently in disappointment a few seconds later— and then scream in overstimulation— and howl once more, over and over and over . . .
It's the nosing he rouses to first.
Insistent nudges of sharp features against his own, and without thought Leto responds: fretfully nosing back against each affectionate push as though he might be lost without it. Stay, stay, and he whines silently as he chases after him, greedy for more of that soothing contact.
But Astarion's voice cuts like a knife through all that.
Look at me, amatus, the words stark neon against a haze of fog, blazing and bright and impossible to ignore. He blinks through a haze of tears, his stare uncertain for a long few seconds before— there. Oh, there, emerald eyes glittering with awareness as they lock on. It doesn't matter how much he's spent or how hungry he is (such a greedy thing at this age, dripping in his own come and yet still needily wringing at his mate's prick); it doesn't matter how wrecked the past few rounds have left him. I'm here, a silent response to that growled command.
I'm here and I'm yours, for he knows what comes next. And there's such a difference, isn't there, between a dog being dragged by his scruff through the open door and one who happily walks through it, knowing what's coming next . . .
Take me, as he trembles beneath his mate.]