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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Nn, Astarion . . .
[For a long moment Leto wavers, torn between the impulse to tease and the molten temptation of simply sinking into this here and now. His eyes flutter closed, his lips parting as he arches his back in blatant invitation, his tail lifting just a little higher . . .
But it's so much more fun to play.
His eyes gleam eagerly as he draws back to face Astarion. You haven't gotten me just yet, no matter that he can't seem to stop grinding against his thigh— nor shuddering each time those clever fingers tug on his tail.]
Could I endure it? Having you so desperately ravenous to touch me— taste me— that you can't help but drag me into an alley and put your mouth on me. One hand between my thighs while the other tugs my tail, seeing how loudly you can make me moan as you glide your prick against me and promise to fuck me if only I'll beg you sweetly for it . . . I suspect I could endure it, Astarion, yes.
But that isn't what I want.
[Reaching back, he takes Astarion's hands (quietly mourning the loss of those fingers combing through his tail) and pins them lightly against his shoulders. White teeth flash as he bites his lip, emerald eyes hooded with desire.]
I want you to give me the most loving sex of my life— and given what you have offered me over the past four years, Astarion, I suspect that will be more of a challenge than you expect. I want to fuck on a bed, not hidden away while we fumble for room. I want to fuck the way we used to, not with my magic to silence us or with limited tools, but with all the space and time and toys we desire.
I want, [he says, and wends his way closer, blunt teeth catching against the soft skin of Astarion's jaw over and over,] to sprawl out on the bed and hear the way you groan for how my tail lifts for you. I want to feel your fingers in my hair as you pin my face to the mattress and listen to me scream as you fuck me hard enough to break the bed, forgetting every word except please. I want to be so filled with your come that I drip it, and worship you with my tongue and my throat until you finish on my face— claimed on both ends.
And I want to tie you to the bed. I want to listen to the way you groan as I tease your fangs, fucking your mouth with two fingers while I bounce on your prick. I want to pin your legs back and fuck you slowly, watching you melt beneath me all the while.
[He draws back again.]
I want to go to that brothel, amatus.
And I know you have self-control enough to make it there, for you have before.
So.
[He leans down, offering Astarion one languid, indulgent kiss: their mouths moving together with molten indulgence once, twice, before Leto breaks away with a little gasp. Sitting up (as much as he's able to, anyway), he gathers his cloak around him.]
The Fey Fox is six blocks away, and the sun was setting when I came in. You can either walk with me— or you may meet me there, and see what surprise I may have in store for you when you walk in.
[Either way, he has every intention of climbing back out of the coffin and heading towards the brothel. Thank the Maker for cloaks that cover not just ears and tails, but a notable swell at the front of his trousers.]
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Astarion doesn't want to be left behind.
He doesn't want to be more than a step away at any point in time, no, but less so in the second that their kiss is broken with a faint pop of hungry suction, as if the laws of physics bend their necks to the very same desires: stay, it bellows through the hollow pits within his bones. Stay, he echoes in response, its singular syllable blown back against his lips with a scrape of decompression— coffin lid raised high enough to let in all the sights and sounds and smells that wipe clean the focused slate of his vampiric senses (what once was only Leto now invokes a flooding clamor as that seal is broken: roasting meat and puppy nails across hardwood, a bickering contest over where the weapon oil went and a faint demonic whiff of sulfur— nevermind the city just outside, barely held back by windowpanes). If he was impatient before, he's more impatient than ever now, already up across his knees to follow suit before common sense returns, and he realizes what he must look like in his rush to find his feet.
Two parts of him. The vampire that would rather die than wait, and Astarion, who thankfully has the better part of two hundred years of experience in anticipation's worth.]
Go, then.
[Muttered with a bite to one tattooed, cloak-covered throat that scruffs instead of sinking in. Like getting in the last word, it's a substitute for what he'd rather have, made heavier with strain— and it lasts only a moment before he's vanished in a streak of crimson mist.
There, and not.
(In actuality, his boots are pacing out a rhythm all their own atop the Fey Fox's high roof. In actuality he's been waiting all of fifteen minutes attempting to fan down the heat of his own swollen prick where it's jammed right against the stupid lacework of his inseam at an uncomfortable angle, telling himself that eventually he'll 'cool off' and 'regain control'— as if that's ever fucking worked before in the whole of his unlife. Like an animal he circles his own footfalls, and when that fails he shifts into his winged, batty counterpart, tucking the fan of his fingers tightly round himself to form a vibrating little cocoon of agitation. Urgency.
And then he catches it, that scent.)
He lasts barely three minutes of restraint before the tavern window's clawed open from outside, nearly yanked off of its hinges; pale claws sunk into the windowframe with his other arm whilst he tries to (noisily) squeeze in like a cat through the wrong side— barely halfway in past his own hips, his red eyes wide and overly dilated.]
—are you—
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He can do this. He's a vampire. This is a windowsill.]
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Truly: for a moment Leto's heart falters, his eyes softening in response to that plea. Stay, and every instinct within him cries out to fulfill that wish. But the coffin opens in the next second, there's that scruffing little command— and oh, for all his heart longs to be near Astarion, it will be so much better when they have the privacy of a room. Still: there's a little nuzzle of assurance offered in that chaotic transition: I'll be there, wait only a little, and then Astarion is gone.
To his credit, he walks fast as he strides down the street. He's no interest in prolonging their separation, after all, and maybe that's why negotiations for a room seem to take so long. Or maybe that's just due to his age, for the madam takes a special sort of pleasure in making him ask for what he wants. If she thinks she'll embarrass him, more fool her; Leto answers tartly and swiftly, and soon enough she's accepted his gold. From there it's up the stairs, ignoring the flirtatious men and scantily-clad women who coo at him and think him an easy mark, counting the doors until at last—
The door opens, the door closes. And Leto leans back against it with a heavy exhale.
Gods, he hadn't realized how starved he was for an empty room until just now.
He won't ever say a word of it to Astarion, not least of which because he knows the lack of privacy grates on his husband's nerves as well. But he's such a solitary creature at heart, and to have spent the past however-many-weeks sharing a space with not just one or two, but a whole host of people he barely knows— gods, it's a lot. And now to have a space where for the next day or so, they won't have to fuss over what others might overhear or think or say, or be on their guards twenty-four/ten . . . oh, it's worth the price, he thinks.
He paces around the room once or twice, stretching his arms above his head, taking a few moments to do nothing but savor it. How he can kick off his hated shoes and walk around barefoot without a host of questions; the way he can cross the room without attracting any stares, friendly or otherwise, or have someone inquire after him . . . gods, he should have brought Ataashi, he thinks with amusement— and then, glancing over at the array of toys laid out, remembers just why he hadn't.
And he'd promised Astarion a surprise, hadn't he?
It takes him only a little time to get ready, and thank the gods for that, for no sooner has he finished setting everything down that he hears a tell-tale scraping. One pale claw makes its way between the window slats and unhooks the latch, and Leto is just about to greet him when—
Oh.
Oh no.]
Come in, [he says, just in case it's something to do with being invited in. But no, that can't be the case, for Astarion is inside . . . sort of. Halfway there, anyway, and it's not his fault that his bat-form is so rotund, nor that the window swings outwards instead of in— and so Leto tries (semi-successfully) to bite back his laughter. That, he gives his husband; he does not bother hiding his grin as he approaches.]
Are you stuck?
[Of course he's stuck, but far be it for Leto not to be a little brat in moments like these. Still grinning, he angles his hands around his husband, trying to figure out a way to sort of— just grab Astarion and the window both—]
Stop— Astarion, stop—
[Finally he just sort of clamps both palms around that fat, fuzzy little body, pinning his wings down and forcing him out before yanking him right back in.]
Is that better, hm?
[Rude, the way he's so blatantly enjoying this.]
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Instead the folded measure of his elbows play the role of brace and cushion equally; old grout pulverized to gritty chalk in ways that he can feel through silk and doesn't waste a second considering, too busy chasing with a lazy sort of eagerness the soft muscle of Leto's pretty tongue. Trying to wolfishly devour the wolf, as it were.]
Much better. [He mouths out low and rough and sharp around the corners of his fangs, his claws shifting whilst they cradle Leto's weight to toy with the tips of tufted ears.
Rude, the way he's so blatantly enjoying this.]
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Mm, but perhaps better still with a be— ah, aha—
[One nimble claw glides against the rim of his ear, teasing at the tip— and oh, Maker, it should be illegal to do so much with so little a touch. Leto's mind goes blank as he fights not to roll his eyes back (or worse still, pant with his tongue lolled out like a bitch in heat). It's just— gods, these puppish ears are just as sensitive as his elven ones, and every slow, seemingly careless little flick of a claw leaves Leto shuddering.]
Astarion . . .
[Wait, what was he saying? But it barely matters. A bed, a couch, a wall, a floor— gods, he'll get fucked against the frosted window so long as Astarion will keep doing that.
Except . . .
They have a whole room to themselves right now, and why should they indulge in something they could have done in the coffin? If they're going to indulge as they haven't been able to in months, why not indulge? Those golden false piercings throbbing beneath his shirt were only the start as far as Leto is concerned.
Knees locking around Astarion's hips, he flips them over in one smooth movement: hands bracing against Astarion's chest as he perches atop him and his tail wagging faintly as he surveys his husband. Almost absently he rocks back, plush ass rubbing slowly against the swiftly-swelling line of his cock.]
Aht . . . not yet. What do we say first?
[He hasn't forgotten Astarion's talk on why letting Leto take charge is so immensely difficult— but on the other hand, it's not as if he doesn't know what he's doing. He has no illusions about topping, but playing . . .? There's such a thrill to be had in baiting a tiger, and they've always flirted with danger.
With one hand he pins his wrist loosely to the floor; he glides his fingertips over the swell of Astarion's bottom lip with the other, coaxing him into opening his mouth. The moment he does they slip inwards: not to greedily take, but merely to tease, knocking against his teeth and tracing the line of his fangs.]
When you want something . . . when you have spent the past twenty minutes thinking of nothing but how I'll look flat on my back with my thighs spread, begging for you to plunge your cock in so deep that the entire brothel will know your name from the sound of my cries alone . . . when you're outright salivating around the swell of my fingers for the thought of tugging my tail until I bark for you . . . [He rocks his hips back, stomach rippling gliding against Astarion's cock in one sinfully fluid motion.] Astarion, what do we say first in order to get it, hm?
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And you know, it really has.
Astarion grins back from the clay shackles of allure and that hand slid round his wrist. He groans as he feels his own prick harden up between undulating sensations washed hotly over him, sparking one after the other they leylines of his nerves. He watches all the while, still marveling at those glimpses of soft, wolfish fur above all else.
And bites down.
Not hard. Not stiffly enough to draw blood or split skin even in slight passing— just the catch. Just the subsequent release to remind that cub of what he toys with when the door is locked and the brothel beyond utterly devoted to its own pursuits.]
Please.... [He starts, letting the exhale rise up to his panting clavicle and open shirt. Pendulum swung the other way, that petition as damnably pretty as he'd ever managed, softened everywhere but in his spit-slicked jaws (like the claws he used to trim, the only place he can't feign probity).
It doesn't last. Leto scooped into his arms in a continuation of that prolonged scuffling they'd started at the sill, only this time it isn't harsh flooring against shoulders. Antithetical to that is perfumed feather down as it floods in to pillow around any space that isn't taken. An expensive mattress underneath, culled petals a cascade that spills down over skin and clothes and flooring just the same, Leto sprawled out over finery even the Elfsong couldn't manage, and Astarion at a half-lean beside him, still wearing that ambrosia-sweet expression, still licking at his fangs like a fox within a henhouse.
I want to fuck on a bed, not hidden away while we fumble for room, was the insistence that led here, after all. I want to fuck the way we used to, not with my magic to silence us or with limited tools, but with all the space and time and toys we desire.
So his continuation of his entreaty comes with a talon set light under one handsome elven chin.] ....show me what you look like under all those clothes. Glorious thing that you've become, I'm tired of trying to fit my view of you around the borders of our coffin.
Show off for me, little pup. [He urgers, index finger hooking down to clip one shirtlace.] Make yourself a meal that I can savor, and lift that pretty tail so that I know where I should start.
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[His voice low and coy, his eyes hooded as he gazes up at his husband. Excitement sparks in the pit of his stomach, a thrill that he hasn't felt in— oh, months, maybe. Their sex life is never a dull thing, for it's Astarion that's always the joy (and someday, Leto swears, he'll convince him of that: that they could do nothing but the most chaste, rote sex and he would still love it, for he loves being with his mate). But it's been such a long time since they've had this kind of intimacy— and he wants to take advantage of it.
This first, though: one slow, molten kiss that lingers. Because he wants to savor this; because the mattress is soft beneath him and Astarion looks so sweet above him. Their lips move together with languid heat, the swiftly deepening push-pull rhythm only broken when his lungs burn in protest— and then he breaks away just to pant softly against slick lips, licking at them just once.]
Watch me. Let me give you a show.
[The half-command, half-request given as he squirms back, shifting until he can sit up. Making quick work of his clothes (such a rough thing with his body and his belongings both), he only belatedly realizes he ought to be a bit more deliberate about this. Show off for me, little pup, and it's about so much more than just vulgarity, isn't it? He'd learned that years ago, but Astarion was the one to truly refine such a skill, showing him just how good anticipation can make things.
So: slow. Slow as he leans back against the headboard and spreads his legs wide, baring every flushed inch of himself to his husband. Slow as he draws one hand languidly up his lithe frame, fingers rubbing teasingly against the glinting gold studs that gleam against the dark skin of his chest. Slow as he wraps his fingers of his other hand around his already swollen cock, his wrist stroking in lazy echo of the way he plays with his piercings. Slow, he tells himself as he looks into crimson eyes and ignores every adolescent instinct that screams to just take, for the way Astarion looks at him now is worth every second of delay. He's flushed, he knows, his cheeks and ears darker, his chest rising and falling as his breathing grows more labored— oh, it isn't long at all before he's worked himself up, and it's only that mantra that stops his hand from snapping in earnest.]
I thought about what we might do here. How we might occupy ourselves. What would make it worth the price, for I intend to take advantage of nearly every luxury they have here.
[Like the oil that he drips over his fingers, deliberately careless in letting it splatter against the planes of his stomach. Like the delicate little toy he pulls out from beneath one pillow, a slender thing meant to titillate far more than satisfy. One slick slide against his rim just to find his mark, and Leto groans as he pushes it in with one smooth motion— letting Astarion watch as he spreads open so sweetly around that intrusion, his body squeezing greedily around every slick inch, fighting to keep what impales it as he glides it in and out, in and out . . .]
Is this what you meant by showing off?
[A playful purr, no matter that he's biting his lip and moaning softly for every slow thrust.]
Or is this not enough to entice you?
[Oh, it assuredly is, for he can see how hungrily Astarion stares at him. There's a countdown silently ticking, he knows; he has only so long before lust and vampiric instinct both demand he sate himself on his teasing consort. And yet— the first time Astarion approaches (a hand on his thigh, a shifting of his weight, a tongue slipping out to entice) one foot draws up swiftly and plants itself against his chest.]
Aht . . . wait for the show to end, greedy thing.